Cassandra Caffrey Chronicles: The Coldest Heart
by Griffin of the Gates
Summary: WC-AU - Neal is just starting to get over Kate's death when a new problem appears that may turn his entire world upside down.
1. Beautiful Lie

**Beautiful Lie**

Peter Burke was sitting in his office staring at a fax with blood shot eyes. He had been called in at a very early hour, long before dawn had ever broken over the horizon. His eyes had not been focused on the paper for at least an hour now. Everything he saw was nothing more than an incomprehensible blur.

Thoughts whirled around in his brain as he gently laid the paper down. Everything was pointing towards the fact that this day was going to be a bad one. The man's toe still stung from where he had jarred it against his bed while getting dressed. That had ruined his attempt to get out of his house without waking Elizabeth up. Waking up went a whole lot smoother once he was dressed and his beautiful wife had given him a warm cup of coffee. However, while getting into his car, he had slammed his head against the door. So far his brain had still not shaken the headache.

Of course, there was still Neal to deal with. As soon as he found out…Peter tried to push the thought of the man's reaction out of his head. He was just starting to get over Kate's death and now here was another stick in the mud to his 'recovery'.

Peter knew what he was going to have to do. He had to hide it from Caffrey. He needed to set up a side team to deal with everything and the man wouldn't be the wiser. It was the only way, but the agent knew that his consultant would eventually figure it out. Neal seemed to know when Peter was sneaking around behind his back. No matter how hard he tried to keep anything a secret, anything the former con artist wanted to know, he found out.

A door opened down below and Peter was snapped out of his thoughts. _Speaking of the devil_, he thought. As if on a perfect cue, the door to his office opened wide. But, the face that appeared was not the one he expected. Breathing a sigh of relief, the agent rushed forward to meet Diana.

"You're early," the woman commented.

"Yeah," his eyes flicked to the papers out in the open on his desk, "I had some work to take care of,"

Diana looked at her mentor suspiciously. Peter wasn't always the class clown of the bureau but neither was he the 'rain on your parade' type either. "It must be some kind of work to have you this riled up," she replied.

The man stared her down for a few seconds before relenting. Checking the door that led into the office, he went back to his desk. Peering over the papers once more, Diana joined him looking through the pictures spread out across the table. Peter passed her the fax and he watched her eyes move back and forth across the paper as she read it. When finished she too had a look of worry on her face. Her eyes met with her mentor's and the agent knew that she agreed with him.

"This could be bad," she said, looking back down at the pictures, "How do you think Neal will take it?"

"How do you think I'll take what?"

Both of the agents' heads shot up at the sound of the familiar and also unwanted voice. For a moment, the both of them were both silent. Neal Caffrey stared at them with suspicious eyes. His trademark hat was held gently in his hands almost as bold as the man himself. Peter felt his brain reeling as he tried to cover his error. How had he not heard the man come in? Inside he knew that Neal would always have the same sneaky and silent walk. No one would hear him come in, especially if he didn't want them to.

Coughing, Peter looked up at his partner with a forced smile. "After all this time and you still can't knock?"

The consultant chucked weakly, smiling. "You know me Peter, I'm that little kid who thinks everybody's business is his," Neal said suggestively. He looked at the agents as he moved closer. He didn't like how this was going.

Peter snorted at this comment and rolled his eyes. "Well since you just have to know," he started moving the papers on his desk around. With a sneakiness that even Neal would have appreciated, he slipped each one he didn't want Caffrey to see back into its folder. Just as cunningly, Diana caught on and passed him the warrant she had received on their current case.

"Here it is," he cried out, holding out the warrant for Neal to see.

"We didn't know how you would take to finally being able to catch this guy," Diana told him as he started to look over the paper.

There was a long pause and tension started to fill the air. Finally Neal chuckled and looked up at Peter.

"Well then, let's go catch a failing art thief," Neal said, flipping his hat and following it with his dazzling smile.

The agents both smiled back, but as they left, Neal flashed an interested look at the folder still lying on the desk. Whatever Peter and Diana had really been looking at was in there. He was sure that the agents were lying to him and he felt his heart wrench painfully in his chest. Peter had promised no more secrets and no more lies.

Turning away he followed the two, hoping they hadn't already noticed he was lagging. He didn't want to let on that he didn't believe them. If Peter realized that he had noticed his sneaky hand movements in the office, then he would be even more vigilant of his watch over the folder. Neal didn't like the thought of sneaking into his partner's office again, but he _had_ broken his promise. Anyway, his curiosity had been sparked. He had to know what was in the folder or it would kill him.


	2. Elective Amnesia

**Elective Amnesia**

The rest of the day went surprising well or at least in Peter's opinion. They had caught the bad guy. Neal had done some of his criminal lingo with the guy and then he had been hauled away to spend a few years in prison. He would soon be out, however and the F.B.I had no doubts that they would see this man again. That was not the problem Peter was worried about at the moment.

The contents of the folder were still bugging at him. The sun had gone down long ago and most of the agents had left, including Neal. Sleep tried and tried to lure Peter in, but nothing seemed to get his mind of the folder. He knew he couldn't hide it from Neal. However, that was exactly what he had to do. All it would be was another shot to the poor man's heart. Peter was sure of it.

"Sir?'

Peter snapped his head up from his desk to find Diana watching him from the doorway. The younger agent frowned at her mentor. She hated him working himself too hard, especially over something that seemed so trivial. His eyes were still blood-shot from lack of sleep. Diana stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She was sure that everyone was out of the nearby areas, but she did not want to take any chances.

"Is it really that bad?" she asked.

Tiredly, he nodded in reply. "This would kill him," he answered, pointing to the closed folder on his desk. Diana sat down in a chair by the door, her frown deepening. She did not like Neal at all times, but she also could barely imagine the White Collar division without him. Peter looked up, for once his face covered with a complete lack of confidence.

"Diana, I have…,"

* * *

"…No idea how to handle this,"

Mozzie glanced up at Neal from his paper. The latter was standing at the edge of the balcony, overlooking Manhattan. Moz was surprised to see his friend so worked up over this. Neal had told him all the details. A secret folder full of secret stuff that Neal apparently could not know anything about. Everything about it seemed entirely normal to Moz. At least when he thought about how the suit worked.

"I haven't seen you this worked up since your search for the music box," Mozzie comment, thoughtfully.

Neal turned away from the ledge. The view was doing nothing to appease his curiosity or the hurt dwelling inside his chest. Therefore, he cared nothing for it tonight. Truthfully, he was unsure which feeling was worse. The curiosity fueling his need to see what was in the folder or the woe he felt at being betrayed by Peter. He forced himself to sit down, sure that he was going to run all the way to the fed's house just to beg him to tell him what was in the folder.

"I know, Moz, but this, this is different. Peter's hiding something from me and I need to know what,"

Mozzie ignored him, "Look, a couple of pieces were stolen from an art exhibit yesterday,"

Neal groaned and let his head fall into his hands. "You're not listening, Mozzie,"

The bald-headed man folded up his paper, slowly. He looked over to his friend, kind of sad to see him in such a vulnerable state. If there was one thing that bothered and could hurt Neal most, it was his curiosity

"Look Neal, what the suit is hiding is…,"

* * *

"…Not our problem, not yet at least,"

Diana looked intently at Peter, a feeling of confusion that she didn't like beginning to settle inside her.

"Why not?" she asked.

The male agent stood up, grabbing his coat and pulling it over his shoulders. While he did so, he talked. "This is almost like a first aide kit. They have prepared me for the worse. I know all there is to know at this moment and right now I know that none of this falls into our jurisdiction. Not until the forgeries start,"

The woman pondered on this statement for a few minutes. "Do you think that that will ever happen?"

Peter stared at her as he leaned against his desk. The emotion on his face was one of absolute seriousness. There was no playing with this kind of thing.

"I know that it will. I'm completely…,"

* * *

"…Sure of it. There is nothing worth seeing in that folder,"

Neal stared at Moz with partial annoyance. He knew what his old friend was trying to do. He was trying to entice him off the subject, convince him to forget all about it. What his motive was however, was a complete blank. Neal stood up to follow Moz to the door that led off the balcony.

"I can't just forget about it, Moz," he pleaded.

His friend smiled as he patted his shoulder. "Yes, you can,"

With that he walked into the house and let himself out of the room. Angrily, the remaining occupant paced the balcony until he was sick to his stomach. Then, he leaned against the table, exasperation brewing inside of him as he thought about what his partner was so keen to hide from him.

Diana was in on it and Mozzie had to know something that he thought tied into it. If he didn't then he would have no reason to try and convince him to forget it about it. And Mozzie never did anything without a very good reason. Something really was up when all three of the people he had confidence in were against him.

Exhaustion finally won over the man's body and he trudged to the door, ready to walk inside. Out of the corner of his eye, his attention was caught by a grayish object still on the table. Walking over to it, he discovered that Mozzie had left his paper. Neal vaguely remembered the conversation. Had Moz not mentioned something about an art heist? Sure that it might actually be an interesting read; he grabbed the paper and brought it inside with him.

Neal started reading it while he lay on his bed. Four paintings had been stolen. Three of them were all from the same female painter, Constance Gordon-Cumming. The other was from Van Gogh. It wasn't the paintings exactly that had something in common, it was the artists. The names sparked old memories from long ago. They were painful ones that he dared not let reach the surface of his consciousness.

The Director of the art exhibit claimed 'It was a flawless theft'. One person had found a way in and a ways out with all four paintings. The paintings had been taken right out of their frames, no mess and no fuss. There wasn't a clue in sight, but law enforcement wasn't giving up.

All of it sounded amusingly familiar, but Neal could not place his finger on it. Putting the paper down, he turned off his beside lamp. He lay there in the dark, dreaming about the folder and about trees. Thousands upon thousands of trees. All of them were reaching for him, yelling out his name. Suddenly, all the trees combined into only one. This tree transformed to reveal a familiar face speckled with silver tears.

"_You promised!" _

Neal sat up in bed, his heart racing. Sweat covered every inch of his body. Looking at the clock he saw that it was still really early in the morning. He did not go back to sleep but that did not really bother him. Now he had a good idea of the only thief with the skill to pull off a heist like the one in the paper. There was only one little problem.

The thief was him.


	3. Don't Ask Me

**Don't Ask Me**

"Honey, are you alright?"

Peter Burke was snapped out of his daze by his wonderful wife, Elizabeth. She was holding him, touching his forehead as if he was running a temperature. They were sitting down to breakfast. Unfortunately, he was finding it a difficult task to stay awake. It was no mystery why. He had not slept a wink all night and now he was going to pay for it.

"Why would you think that something was wrong?" he countered.

He knew he was going to be in trouble for this one. No one knew him better than his wife and Peter was actually glad for that. A lot of people not with the Bureau thought that he and Elizabeth were having marital problems. Mostly because he was always at work and they were hardly seen together. Luckily, El understood that she had to share her husband. With a worried look, she sat back down on Peter's right.

"Other than the fact that you keep falling asleep, you haven't touched your coffee," She pointed a delicate finger towards his still full cup. The woman had him pegged, like always. Peter hesitated, unsure whether or not he wanted to tell her.

"It's Neal," he replied. Elizabeth smiled, "Isn't it always,"

This actually brought a chuckle out of the man and for that El was happy. She waited while her husband turned to pull something out of his briefcase. He handed it to her with a somewhat mysterious air. Usually he did not like to bring his wife into his job; it was just safer that way. However, this was a special case. It had to be handled a whole lot differently.

There wasn't much in the folder. Four pictures, a dossier fax and a security surveillance DVD. Peter sipped at his now cold cup of coffee while his wife examined every little detail. She looked up just as he was finishing the last sip.

"It can't be that bad," she said. Peter's face was one of complete disbelief.

"It's terrible. If he finds out it could be the end of him!"

Elizabeth shook her head and leaned back into her chair. "Don't you think you are being a little overprotective? Maybe over exaggerating all of this,"

Her husband stared at her, his mouth agape at the simple thought that he was over exaggerating. She had to be joking. Yet, a part of him knew that she wasn't. Elizabeth noticed the look, the one where her husband was at a loss for words. She took advantage of it.

"Tell him. I bet he'll take it a whole lot better if you didn't lie to him about it,"

Peter shook his head back and forth vehemently. He couldn't think straight. Here was his wife, one of the few people he trusted wholeheartedly, urging him to tell Caffrey possibly the worst news since Kate's death. El smiled mischievously at him over her coffee cup knowing exactly what he was thinking. He started to reply to her, but was cut short by his phone ringing. At first he wanted to ignore it. Finally however he was forced to open it and put it up to his ear.

"Burke,"

"Morning, boss,"

El looked at him inquisitively and Peter mouthed the name 'Diana'. He didn't like the tone of the woman's voice. It told him something was off.

"What's wrong?" he asked. About this time he was standing up, laying the phone on the table and turning the speaker on.

"Did you read the paper yesterday?"

"No, I didn't. Why?"

"You should,"

He started searching the table for it. El beat him to it, holding it out for him. He smiled and accepted it with a nod. He was going to ask Diana what article he should read when he caught sight of the front page. It was about an art heist that had happened the day before yesterday. Absently, he muttered the names of the artists to himself. They sounded familiar and a horrible foreboding started to rise in his stomach.

"Four paintings. All of them go missing on the same day without any alarms. Some thief," he joked. Elizabeth nodded, returning from filling up a second cup of coffee.

"That's not the worst," Diana replied, "This morning one of the paintings was returned and…" The man finished the sentence, "It's a suspected forgery,"

"Exactly. Hughes wants us to check it out,"

Peter sighed, knowing now that he was backed into a wall. With the 'folder' now part of an ongoing case, there was no way he would be able to hide it from Neal, unless….

"Do you think it's one of hers?" Diana asked, interrupting his thoughts.

There was a long pause as he thought it over. His eyes locked with his wife's. She was absolutely enthralled by all of this. "I can't be sure until I see it, but I'd bet my job that it is,"

The call finished, he hung up as his wife looked up expectantly. Peter hugged her and kissed her. She helped him gather the contents of the folder. When they're hands touched, she grabbed his wrist.

"Think about it. Don't let it sit too long. It could cost you and Neal everything you have worked so hard to accomplish," she told him, reminding him of the other problem at hand.

"I'll do my best, honey," he replied, kissing her again before leaving to face the cold world that awaited him outside.

* * *

**To My Wonderful Readers: Ack! Extremely short chapter. Oh well. I just wanted to thank all of you who have read and/or reviewed this story. I'm so glad that you like it so far. I'll be sure to provide you with more mystery as the story continues. We haven't even reached the really interesting part yet. Squee!**

**Either way there have been some questions asked about the last line in the previous chapter. Neal isn't saying he's the actual thief, he's saying that he's the only person with the ability to pull off that kind of flawless heist. **

**Hope it helps and I hope I didn't give too much away. Look forward to seeing more to this story; I'm far from done with it. **

**By the way, to anyone who might be wondering, yes all the chapter titles (and the actual story title) are titles of songs on my IPod. The Coldest Heart by The Classic Crime (obviously the title of the story) is the stories theme. The chapter titles are not really related to the actual events in the chapter, but sometimes they do fit and sometimes it's just a cute name. Thanks again, hope to hear from everyone again soon. **


	4. This Shouldn't Be Legal

**This Shouldn't Be Legal**

At the office, Peter and Diana peered over the new case files. Neither of them liked the cross reference between this case and the folder. He had talked it over with his colleagues, aka Diana and Jones. They all agreed that it would be in everyone's best interest to let Neal sit this one out. Even if it wasn't who they thought it was, Neal would still figure something out. He was good at this kind of thing.

Said ex-con artist finally arrived only a few minutes before Peter and his team were getting ready to leave for the exhibit. Excitedly, he asked where they were going today. Frowning at the thought of lying to his friend, Peter replied, "Diana, Jones and I are going to investigate an art heist and a potential forgery,"

Neal grinned with excitement at getting to deal with something he was definitely an expert in. The smile faded when Peter pointed at him, the look on his face almost like disdain, "You, however, are going home,"

At this point, the young man caught on to what the other was saying. He followed them, noticing how fast the agents were going. It was as if they were trying to get away from him as fast as they could. "Why! This is my area of expertise Peter, you need me,"

The agent laid a gentle hand on Neal's shoulder. His face softened as the elevator pinged behind him. "You've been working hard. You have the day off, go visit Mozzie or something. Get some rest."

Without another word, Peter stepped into the elevator with Diana. It shut right afterwards and started going down. Neal watched the descending number above the door with a sad look like that of a child who had been told he couldn't go out to play. Mischievously, he cast a glance to his partner's office. He only allowed himself a few seconds to ponder on the thought of breaking in before he shot the idea out of his mind. He berated himself mentally with the same tone that Peter used on him. He had to believe that Peter wouldn't hide the folder from him forever. Either way, the fed had broken his promise, but that didn't mean that he had to do the same.

The elevator opened and he stepped in. As he did, he realized that he was relishing the fact that he was the good guy instead of Peter for once. Jones rushed in and Neal moved over to make room. As the elevator descended an awkward silence stretched between them. Eventually, Jones spoke first. "So, what are you going to do on your day off?"

Neal looked at the agent trying his best to hide his jealousy at the fact that Jones got to go to the art exhibit and not him. Jones didn't even like art that much. Not like Neal did. As the elevator doors opened, Neal smiled, his eyes glittering with mischief. If the feds were going to tease him then he was going to tease them back.

"I'm going to visit an old friend," he paused as he stepped out of the elevator. Jones followed, staring at him with intense curiosity. As if that small look could tell him everything he needed to know.

"What kind of friend?"

Neal smiled at the man's attempt to find out some kind of information. "A friend who's actually not that old,"

With that he walked away and disappeared into the crowds.

* * *

Stepping inside a jail was like asking to be hospitalized for stupidity. Neal could remember being led into one of these places, not once, but twice. He did not like it in the slightest. Strangely enough, this time he was not the criminal, but the visitor. Nevertheless, the walls seemed to close in around him. They were pressing him, crushing him until he was nothing more than a brainwashed pancake.

"Sir, can I ask what your business is here?"

The consultant was jarred from his thoughts by a very suspicious guard. Neal vaguely remembered reaching the metal detectors. His mind had been completely focused on trying not to run right back out the front doors. Now that he thought about, he realized he should have expected being questioned. An anklet on a jail visitor made a person an instant suspect. Neal didn't know why, nor did he care. Quietly, he explained that he was there to visit a close family friend.

"Who is this friend of yours," the officer asked, his tone that of boredom.

"Cassie Davis," Neal replied almost instantly.

Confusion crossed the officer's face and he started to add something else, but he was interrupted. The officer urged him closer. When he spoke again, he had dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Cassie Davis broke out three days ago,"

Now it was Neal's turn to be in shock. Slowly, he started backing away from the guard. This had to be a bad dream, none of this could be happening. She couldn't just disappear. Neal felt his heart start to race with anxiety. He had to find her, before something bad happened. Thoughts of Kate flashed through his brain, but he pushed them back.

"You're serious?" he asked, his voice shaking with emotion.

The guard nodded almost sadly, "She was a sweet kid, must have snapped. Took a prison guard hostage, held a gun to his head and demanded to be let out. There were only two night guards then..."

The man kept rambling on and on, but Neal didn't stay to listen. He was already running, practically flying back to the bureau. It was time. He couldn't wait anymore for Peter to decide. He had to see what was in that folder. He had to know what Peter wasn't telling him.

* * *

**To My Readers: Another Chapter….Wow, three in one day. I should probably slow down or I won't have any to keep you interested. *grin*. Sorry it's so short again, but it should keep you hanging for the night. **


	5. Atrophy

**Atrophy**

No one knew that Neal had the day off. No one except the three who were examining forged artwork at an exhibit down the street. An exhibit that he should have been allowed to go to. The ex-con artist pushed this thought away thinking instead about how much good luck he was having.

Regrettably, the feeling that he was playing the bad guy again was already starting to eat at him. He couldn't take lying to these people. He did not want to admit it; he realized he was starting to enjoy being the good guy. Lying to the bad guys wasn't a problem in the slightest, but lying to the good guys hurt…a lot. Nevertheless, this hole that Peter was digging around him was getting way too deep. It was time for him to start filling some of the dirt back in.

Upstairs he was surprised to find his partner's door unlocked. His good luck seemed to be sticking around for a little bit. Slipping inside and closing the door behind him, Neal realized he might have enjoyed part of this had he not had this intense sense of emergency. In all his life, no one had been as close to him as Cassie. He even knew the only name she answered to now and it wasn't 'Cassie'. He wasn't in love with her like a few of his prison mates had thought when he talked about her. At least not in the way he loved Kate. Cassie was different. She meant everything to him.

_She couldn't have meant very much to you since you left her to die. _He thought, remembering what Kate has said at one of her visits whenever he had mentioned the girl.

Neal started to explore the office, trying to make it seem that he was there with Peter's permission. Anyone on the other side of the glass behind him didn't need to know what was going on. Very few people knew exactly who Cassie was to Neal. The both of them had decided to keep it that way long ago when they had started running art heists together. Only Mozzie, Peter and Kate knew, other than Cassie and Neal themselves.

Coming up short for a second time, the ex-con started to get upset. What if his partner had taken it with him? He hoped and prayed that he had convinced Peter that he had no interest in the secret folder. He had had to show Peter that he trust him.

The word trust echoed in his brain as he realized his mistake. The folder wasn't hidden at all, but staring him right in the face. On the agent's desk, among a pile of printed papers, lay the all important folder. Neal touched it cautiously almost as if a bomb would go off if he hit it too hard. He sat down and picked it up. A random thought hit him about how upset his partner would be when he discovered that he had been sitting in his chair. He smiled faintly at this, but it faded almost instantly.

The folder felt like lead in his hands. He held it close, the suspense killing him. Unfortunately, his heart was not ready to face the truth. What if something bad had happened to Cassie? Neal was sure he would completely crack if he found out she was gone for good. If anything had happened it would have been his fault entire and he wouldn't be able to face that.

He sat there awhile, trying to coax himself to move. He had to open the folder; no he _needed _to open it. The mystery behind her escape finally got the better of him. His fingers unfolded painfully. He held the folder out in front of his face. His heart started racing.

He opened the folder and stifled a gasp.

* * *

Mozzie was sitting at his favorite diner. Lunch wasn't anything special, just a glass of water and a tomato sandwich. Nevertheless, he was enjoying himself. There was something about lunch that made him feel content. Maybe it was because there were many different names one could call it. Lunch could be referred to as 'dinner' or often, if you missed breakfast, as 'brunch'. Lunch had just as many aliases as Moz did.

Or was it just the peaceful tranquility involved with feeling like a normal person for a few minutes? The man had never really figured it out. Therefore, for many thousands of reasons, Mozzie enjoyed the mystery of lunch. Fortunately, he also enjoyed helping Neal just about as much. If he didn't, he would have been thoroughly upset when the young man called.

"Hello my good friend, how are you on this wonderful…," Moz paused checking the clock on the far wall, "Afternoon,"

"I saw the folder," was Neal's clipped reply.

Mozzie leaned back in his chair, a smile lifting up his face.

"So the suit finally showed you didn't he? Just like I told you he would," he stated, relishing the fact that he was right.

"No, I searched his office,"

The little man's smiled faded. He sat up in his chair starting to realize that Neal's tone was not one of annoyance at being proved wrong. Something had upset him.

"You broke into...? The suit will not be happy," he said quietly while pulling out his wallet to pay his bill. He was starting to get worried about this folder's effect on his friend. He needed to get to him.

"No, the door was unlocked, I just took the open opportunity," Neal replied, defensively.

By this time, Moz was walking out of the door from the diner. "So what was in it?"

As much as the man disapproved of Neal's foolishness, he too was still curious to know what he had found.

"Constance's unfinished dossier,"

Mozzie actually froze right where he was on the sidewalk. "If I remember correctly, that would be your…,"

"Not over the phone, Moz," Neal warned.

Surprisingly, the man didn't get upset at being told off like he normally would have. Moz knew that his friend was really worried. This was a special case and he would let it slide. For a long time, he couldn't find anything to say.

"You said unfinished?" Moz pressed forcing his feet to move him on.

Neal actually chuckled. Only it wasn't real. Mozzie could tell that it was forced. He was trying to take his mind of all this, but he couldn't.

"They only know her by her alias, Cassie Davis. And…they never actually pinned the forgeries on her. They got her for the thefts instead,"

Confusion settled over Mozzie. "That's good right? They don't know who she is,"

The man on the other end of the line gave an exasperated yell. "Yes! But that's not the problem. She's gone Moz!"

Mozzie could practically hear the emotion that his friend was forcing back. He had never heard Neal this upset, even when Kate had died.

"What do you mean gone?" he asked. "There are many different versions of the word 'gone'. She could be missing 'gone', dead 'gone'…,"

"She's gone," Neal repeated, taking a really deep breath, "Like Kate,"

The joke was over, Moz understood that and yet, he still didn't understand what Neal was trying to tell him.

"You're still not being clear. Gone like Kate could still mean she's missing or..,"

"MOZZIE!"

On the end of the line, Neal heard his accomplice fall completely silent. He was sitting down now on the stairs leading into June's house. He couldn't muster the strength to get to his room. He hadn't started crying, but it was taking everything he had to keep it back. Even Kate's death hadn't affected him this badly. It wasn't as bad as having no idea where Constance was, having no idea whether she was dead or alive.

Rubbing a hand through his disheveled hair, he forced himself to take slow breaths. His thoughts were raging inside his head, not a single one of them useful in the least. His brain was a muddle of chaos and confusion.

"I'm sorry, Mozzie," he spoke softly, "She's skipped jail and if anything happens to her it's all my fault,"

There was no answer on the other end of the line and Neal feared he had scared Mozzie away for good. Before Kate's death, he might not have been this worked up. Now that one person was dead because of him, he would never survive the guilt of another person's life on his hands.

"What are you going to do now?" Mozzie finally asked.

Suddenly, all of Neal's thoughts came together. All the chaos converged, giving him one simple answer.

"I need to talk to Peter,"

To this Mozzie had no complaint and Neal discovered that he wouldn't have cared if he had.


	6. Need You Now

**Need You Now**

Meanwhile, Agent Peter Burke was mentally pulling his hair out. Jones had already talked to the Director of the art exhibit. In a tearful rage, she had explained that a guard had been posted all throughout the day except for lunch whenever they closed off the entire exhibit. At that time, only three people remained in the building. The Director herself, her assistant and the new intern. When the lunch break was over, the officer had returned to find the paintings missing.

At first Peter would have put his money on the intern. However when he had finally gotten a chance to meet the nervous man, he felt uncertainty grip him. He truly believed that this was the work of Cassie Davis. Yet, the only suspects he had were no where close to being the teenage girl.

The forgery itself was practically flawless. That's how he knew that it had to be her. That was Cassie's MO. The flawless technique with which she painted. She used gloves meaning there were no fingerprints. The paint, though extremely expensive, was old and contained no phosphors. The details were exact right down to the original painter's mistakes. If there was anything that the forger had messed up, none of the agents could find it. They were having no luck uncovering a signature, though he was sure that there had to be one.

Cassie's case had been hardest for him, even harder than Neal's. So hard that about halfway through it, he had passed the case on to someone else. He had claimed it was too personal for him to deal with an unbiased view. Back then, that wasn't entirely true. Two years later, however, Peter had a completely different view to it.

The girl left nothing behind for him to use. The only way the FBI had ever finally caught her was when she started doing one-person art heists and people started to remember her face. Even then they had only been able to pin the thefts on her, never the forgeries. The only reason Peter knew that all the paintings had been forgeries was because Neal had told him so.

His eyes started watering as he passed the black light over the painting forcing him to hand it over to Diana. Diana did her best, but neither she nor Jones had any luck with uncovering a signature either. All of them were almost ready to give up and claim the painting authentic. Thus, Neal's arrival was both a blessing and a curse.

In a terrible bad mood caused by severe lack of sleep and stress due to protecting the ex-con, Peter automatically reacted as if it was a curse. Getting yelled at didn't bother Neal a bit since he was in a similar mood. It was taking every tendril of strength he had to keep from attacking Peter for information. The man kept reminding himself who he was. All he had to do was wait and he was sure the agent would tell him everything he needed to know.

"Neal, I told you to go home! What the hell are you doing here?" Peter yelled.

As upset as the consultant was, Neal still could not resist the opportunity to aggravate his partner. He grinned, tipping his fedora like a gentleman in the south.

"I'm just visiting an art exhibit. It _is_ in my two mile radius,"

"It's closed," was the growled reply.

"Must have missed the 'closed' sign," the younger man shrugged, "The intern let me right past,"

A thought occurred to Peter, but in his anger he lost it. Therefore, he continued with his rant. No one seemed bothered by the pause anyway.

"That's not what matters. Why are you here, Caffrey?"

Neal winced. The agent must have been really upset with him; he rarely used his last name anymore _except_ when he was mad. The man's face fell, a deep gloom falling over him like a blanket. He moved closer to the yelling agent until he was barely inches from Peter's face. He poked the man in the chest with his index finger. Behind him, Diana and Jones were tensed. Neither of them understood what was happening, but they knew what they had to do if a problem arose.

"You lied to me," hissed Neal, all the hurt he felt over this situation coming out as he talked.

"What are you talking about?"

If the ex-con had cared to meet his partner's eyes, he would have realized that the man was seriously confounded at his statement. Unfortunately, he didn't and thus he took the man's question as attempting to divert his attention from the problem. Neal's anger rose. The feeling felt strange, he usually was a more chipper person, even when he was upset, he usually didn't feel anger.

"I know about Constance,"

To this, Agent Peter had no reply. At first, he was taken aback, in complete shock. Diana stared inquisitively at the both of them while Jones just leaned back in disinterest. He thought it was just another normal Peter vs. Neal rant. It happened every other day and he could care less about who won anymore.

The ex-con artist waited patiently. His eyes were clouded with pain and blood-shot from trying not to cry. Peter vaguely thought that if he hollowed out Neal's angelic face and added a couple years to his age that he might actually look exactly like him. He pulled back, turning away to think.

The truth finally dawned on the agent and he turned his annoyance sparked all over again. "You broke into my office!"

"Actually, you left the door unlocked, I just…you know," he made a motion of turning a door knob, "Opened it,"

Peter was pacing back and forth now. If looks could kill, Neal knew that he would have been dead at least five minutes before. The agent was poking the air at the ex-con, stuttering on his words. "Prison. That's where I'm sending you,"

In reply to this, Neal only shrugged. By now he was used to the 'I'm sending you back to prison' threat. And for once, it didn't work because he didn't care. His eyes never left his partner. Out of the corners he could see Diana and Jones waiting for this to be over. Finally, Peter looked up, his face hardened, but his voice came out a whole lot quieter. It was still angry though and came out in a somewhat muffled hiss.

"I left my door unlocked because I trusted you, Neal. Now you go and just throw it all away!"

Neal lost it then. He barely comprehended his movements, didn't even notice that he had moved at all. He didn't even know until he realized Diana was choking him. He was fighting with everything he had to get at Peter, but the woman wouldn't let him go anywhere.

"Neal, what's gotten into you?" she asked.

He was yelling too, ignoring her.

"And I trusted you," he replied, struggling against Diana's surprisingly strong grip, "You promised! No more secrets, you told me. I held up my end, why didn't you?"

All the agents were shocked by Neal's sudden display of emotion. Even Jones, who had been starting to yawn and wishing he had brought a magazine to read, now had his hand resting on his gun holster. Diana and Peter looked at each other, cryptic messages passing with each look. Neal had given up fighting and as he started to breathe again, he felt himself calming down. The brunt of his sorrow had been released. Peter saw this and nodded his head to Diana. The woman nodded in return and pulled away. The ex-con rubbed his neck, wincing slightly.

"Do you feel better now?"

Neal looked up, meeting Peter's eyes. He looked down, a little ashamed at the way he had acted. "Not really,"

Silence moved in, stretching the conversation longer and longer. Finally, Peter took a deep breath. "Neal,"

Hearing his name, the man looked up. The fed's face had softened and he looked less like a hardened field agent and more like a father talking to his son. The thought made Neal feel a little awkward while also pleased.

"I didn't want to tell you about Constance. I was…worried…about the effect it would have on you," the man looked up and this time they held each other's gaze. "I'm sorry,"

At first Peter was afraid that Neal wouldn't accept the apology. His face didn't change; he didn't even move to breathe. At last, he spoke.

"We can talk later," he replied, his voice gravelly, "I need to see it,"


	7. Tear's Don't Fall

**Author's Note: This is one of the few chapters where the lyrics to the song name actually match. When this rare occasion happens, I will then post the lyrics throughout the chapter. They may however, not be in order. Just for a warning. **

**This chapter's lyrics are brought to you by: Bullet For My Valentine**

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**Tears Don't Fall**

With little hesitation, Peter led Neal over to the artwork. The painting looked exactly like the original. The federal agent was nervous, if Neal couldn't find anything they were going to be up a creek without a paddle. He didn't like the thought of that. To make things worse, he was sure that Neal was still angry with him. And he wasn't wrong. The ex-con artist was not quick to forgive; he had not accepted the apology yet. However, he was sure that it would grow on him as the day wore on. He could never stay mad at Peter for too long. It caused far too many problems.

Using every tool that they had, the man examined every inch of the painting. Like the rest of the three agents, he found absolutely nothing. Placing the black light on the table, he smiled.

"Would you mind sharing what's so amusing with the rest of us?"

Peter's voice made him jump. His work always interested him, wrapping him tightly into its folds. He had completely forgotten that he wasn't alone. He looked up at the agent standing over him, his bright blue eyes shining.

"There's nothing here," he stated.

The agent gave a frustrated snort. "Tell me something I don't know,"

"My favorite month is November," Neal replied as he turned back to the painting.

His partner couldn't help, but smile at this. He was pleased that the man was perking up. As much as his jokes got on his nerves, it proved that he wouldn't be mad for long. However, this entertainment distracted him from the small candle and pack of matches that the consultant was pulling out of his pocket. Diana, fortunately, did not miss it.

"Caffrey, what are you doing?"

* * *

_There's always something different going wrong  
The path I walk is in the wrong direction_

_

* * *

_

Her voice was a catch between being interested and condemning him. Neal looked over his shoulder with a smile. He did not answer her though as he pulled out a match, making ready to light it. Peter grabbed his hand before he could. His glare was all he needed to get Neal to talk.

"How sure are you that this is a forgery?" he asked.

Peter paused, releasing the man's hand with a forced patience. He wasn't exactly sure how to answer the question. Instead, he asked Neal one of his own.

"Why are you so sure that it is?"

"I asked you first," the man replied, indignantly.

The agent's eyebrows rose at this blatant demonstration of rebelliousness. Sighing, the other relented.

"Two reasons. First, this is my heist,"

All the agents stood a little straighter at this, eyeing him suspiciously. Seeing this, he threw his hands up. "Hey, don't look at me! I'm not saying I'm the actual thief. I was with you all that day,"

Tracking back, Peter thought about and confirmed in his brain that the man had indeed been with him at the time the paintings had disappeared. However, he pretended to continue thinking about it, shaking his head as if he didn't believe him. The ex-con glared back. If only he understood what the agent was trying to do, he might have found it funny.

"See, it's not that comical when you're the one getting aggravated. Is it?" Peter asked.

There was a snort behind them. Neal did not have to look back to realize that Jones was trying as hard as he could to keep from snickering. The playful mood lifted everyone's spirits but it still didn't change the problem at hand.

Neal continued his explanation, "Constance and I planned this heist years ago," he spun his chair around and looked at the other two agents while he talked, "I bet if you ask that jumpy intern at the front desk, he'll tell you that he let in a pizza delivery at lunchtime,"

Peter flicked his finger at Jones. Glad to have something to do and still not able to hide his snickers, he gladly disappeared. The others returned their gazes to the consultant whose face was strained as he tried to think.

"The other reason?" Peter prodded.

* * *

_There's always someone ****** hanging on  
Can anybody help me make things better?_

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_

Neal looked up with a somewhat depressed look in his eyes. "Because if she's painting, it means she's alive," he said softly.

Diana and Peter looked at each other for a moment then broke contact. The ex-con noticed, but said nothing.

"How are you going to prove it?" Diana asked, "You just said you couldn't find any mistakes,"

A grin broke out on the man's face. A grin that stretched from ear to ear. "Did you forget who I am?" he said, pulling his hat off and laying it down, far on the other side of the table.

"Unfortunately, not," she replied.

Neal spun the chair back around, striking the match in his hand. He placed it against the wick of the candle which flared into a matching flame. As he shook the match out, he spoke, staring at the flame. "You still haven't answered me, Peter,"

Peter took a deep breath, held it and closed his eyes. Slowly, he exhaled. His eyes opened.

"Go ahead,"

* * *

_Your tears don't fall, they crash around me  
Her conscious calls, the guilty to come home_

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* * *

_

The consultant picked up the painting, holding it over the open flame. All of them held their breath, knowing the consequences if this went wrong. At first, nothing happened. Neal tried to stay calm, trying not to rush. There was a particular way that this had to be done. He needed this to work. He had to know that Constance was okay. Also, if it didn't work, he would have destroyed a very valuable and expensive piece of artwork. The FBI would probably have to put him back in prison for his own safety.

Consistently, he moved the painting around; making sure that every piece got the same amount of heat. Paint started to crack, shrinking away as it revealed brown splotches that were in no relation to the position of the flame. These Neal paid very little attention to, but as soon as he saw the signature appear, he pulled the painting away. He blew out the candle giving Diana time to move closer.

The once flawless piece of work was now a canvas full of colorful chaos marred by dozens of brown blotches and streaks. Neal flipped the painting over. The entire back was as brown as a perfectly roasted marshmallow. No where near the same pattern on the front. He showed this to the two agents and Peter nodded. In spite of this, he still retained a confused look as did the female agent.

"She's not perfect; she's just really good at covering her tracks,"

Understanding dawned on Peter, "Lemon juice,"

Neal shrugged, "And other acidic substances,"

Peter chucked, picking up the painting and examining the streaks where the girl had scrubbed the old paint away and resumed. "She might actually be better than you,"

The consultant looked up with a mock look of disbelief on his face, "That's not funny,"

Peter smiled, "I think it is,"

Neal's face dropped as he clasped his hands together. The cascade of thoughts was back again. Memories haunting him. "I taught her that," he explained, "Too proud to use it myself, but she's a little…,"

The man paused, searching for the right word. Peter laid the painting back down and he tapped at it. "…Obsessed, with perfection," he finished.

* * *

_The moments die, I hear no screaming  
The visions left inside me are slowly fading_

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_

Diana had moved forward to examine the piece herself. She pointed towards the purposeful marking in the bottom-left hand corner.

"What's that supposed to be?"

Neal turned to look at the strange triune-like symbol. His heart fluttered with joy. He would recognize that symbol anywhere.

"The evasive signature, Cassie's three Cs," he replied, showing them with his finger how the design was created.

Peter watched the man's finger with extreme concentration. After all these years, with only had Neal's words to go on that the pictures were forgeries, he knew the truth. No wonder the girl had gotten away with it. No one in their right mind would be bold enough to burn a potential piece of artwork just to see if it was a forgery.

He tried to remember what the three Cs stood for, remembering vaguely that Neal had told him once. "Cassie 'Constance' Caffrey," he said.

"Try saying that three times fast," the ex-con artist laughed.

* * *

_Would she hear me if I called her name?_

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_

Peter rolled his eyes and Neal grinned both at Peter and at the sudden look of shock on Diana's face as she discovered the truth. Slowly all the pieces were starting to come together for all of them. Thinking to himself out loud, the agent started reciting what he knew from the girl's dossier and his personal connections with Neal.

"Real name, Cassandra Caffrey. Alias, Cassie Davis," he began.

By this time, Neal had moved his chair to the center of the floor and was spinning in circles. "Don't forget the other one, Constance Caffrey," he interrupted, his voice sounding strange as he continued to spin.

Peter didn't reply, too lost in his thoughts to care about the girl's other aliases. "Status, emotionally unstable fugitive,"

* * *

_This battered room I've seen before  
The broken bones they heal no more, no more._

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_

"Hey! Not entirely," was the somewhat offended reply from Neal. This outburst was also ignored.

"Parents, deceased. Siblings…," At this point, the man fell silent.

* * *

_With my last breath I'm choking_  
_Will this ever end? I'm hoping._

_

* * *

_

Hearing the pause, Neal brought the chair's spinning to an abrupt stop. Their eyes met and the consultant smiled, weakly.

"Neal Caffrey, older brother,"

* * *

**Author's Note: Oh, please, please, please tell me I didn't lose any of my readers with that last line. I know a lot of you don't like OCs especially ones so tightly connected to the characters like siblings, parents, other lovers or children. But, I'm still not going to give up on this story. Unfortunately, it's not good if I don't have anybody to read it.**

**I have two other things to say….actually three. First, OMG! I actually reached seven chapters. I'm so excited. *ahem* And thank you to all those who have read and/or reviewed. I need constructive criticism to make this story better for all of you. **

**Also, to anyone who might be wondering about the acidic substances and the painting. I actually tested it, it really does work. (Though I'm definitely not that good at painting.) Hope that all of you will stick around to read the coming chapters. Thank you again. **


	8. Can't Stop the Rain

**Can't Stop the Rain**

Painting had once been an escape for Cassandra Caffrey who no longer referred to herself by this name, but preferred using only one name. Constance. She liked how it described her. Constant, stationary. The way she liked to be. She hated change, hated everything being different. All her life the only constant had been herself.

After her parents' deaths, she had lived with her brother for a time. When he had been arrested, she was passed from foster home to foster home until she finally got the bright idea to run. Nothing was ever constant for her. Not the weather, not the emotions she felt. Only her existence remained the same.

Painting could have been the closest thing to a constant she ever had. If the design did not change, of course. Nevertheless, she loved how forging helped her keep some sense of consistency in her life. Even when she just painted for fun, she kept the theme the same.

Now all Constance felt while she painted was like she was in jail again. Truthfully, she would have desired to be back there rather than be where she was now. In her cell she had at least been able to draw freely if she wanted to. Obviously, they didn't allow her to forge anything, but they gave her a pencil and a few pieces of paper if she was good. Which was always. No matter how emotionally unstable people thought she was, she was only that way when certain situations arose. The cell had been small and the girl was quite claustrophobic, but she had learned to deal with that through her drawings.

The best thing had been that she was able to mess up now and again. Through Neal's teachings and through her own so-called freedom in jail, she had finally learned that not everything about her work had to be perfect. Unfortunately it was going against everything she had been taught when she was younger.

A long time ago, the need for 'perfection' had literally been burned and beaten into the girl. Afterwards, everything the girl did or had, had to be perfect. When it wasn't the girl usually lost it. Over time, Neal had gently coaxed her out of that thought process until it was nothing more than a constricting box in the back of her head, not unlike a jail cell itself. Under the intense pressure of the new events happening around her, she was reverting back to the need to make everything perfect.

Staring at the original painting, she let herself be pulled into it. She used the painting to make herself forget. The painting was her setting, her home. Not this empty, run-down apartment. Not the place where her entire world had been destroyed. Not the jail cell where she had spent the past two years of her life. Constance did not look away from the painting until the image was a part of her, until it was burned into her mind like a stamp. She did not look at the area around her. First, there was nothing much to look at anyway. Two tables which were covered in all the equipment she needed and the chair she was sitting in. That was the only furniture. Second, she didn't want to lose sight of the painting inside her head.

Pulling on her gloves, she hummed to herself. The paintbrush felt heavy in her hand, almost like a gun to a gangster, this was her weapon. Just like painting was her drug, she was addicted to it. No matter how hard it was to get it, she would always need it. Her eyes followed the gentle strokes as she painted. They covered the invisible symbol already existing on the page.

As much as she hated her name, she liked the three Cs. They created the symbol just right for her. Nothing else pleased her more than to make her signature the way she did. Maybe one day she could find something else that the three letters stood for, but for now they stood for her name.

Constance felt her finger twitch and she was forced to stop and brush the wet paint away with her solution. Sitting there, she closed her eyes, thinking of the mess she was in. If only she could warn Neal, tell him something. But she hadn't seen her brother in four years; she had no idea how to get in contact with him. All she knew was what she had learned so far and all that was a little vague. He had turned fed, but how, she wasn't sure.

As soon as she was sure the acidic solution was finished drying, she continued with her work. Her stomach growled angrily at her for food; her tongue was swollen and dry from dehydration. Yet she told herself to keep on. If she didn't get this painting right, there wouldn't be any food or water tonight. She would have to wait until tomorrow and if she messed up again, the cycle would continue. Constance didn't like it, her stomach didn't like it and her system didn't like it. Unfortunately, she had no choice in the matter.

Outside a car door slammed and she jumped. Startled from her work, she felt like she was seeing for the first time since she started. She stared at the piece with wide eyes. A long blue streak that took up most of the painting was her mistake. Fear flooded through her. Under normal circumstances the girl would have let it slide. She would have grabbed another canvas and started over again. But she didn't have another canvas. She only had one until later that evening and that was only if she finished this painting.

Constance grabbed a clump of steel wool nearby and dipped it in the acidic solution. She attacked the painting with fervor, scrubbing the wool across the canvas until her fingers ached, until her eyes burned. Still she continued until the light of day had faded from the window. Even then she kept on, unable to see if the paint was all gone or not. This painting had to be perfect, not a single mistake marring it. Her life depended on it.


	9. False Pretense

**Author's Note: I don't really like how this chapter turned out. I've been kind of sick today and I think it's affecting my writing. Oh well. Bear with me until the next chapter please. **

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**False Pretense **

Back at the office, Neal was a bundle of nerves. He couldn't sit still to save his life and it was driving him crazy. Not to mention the other agents. All of them were reviewing the information they had so far. Yes, the painting that had come in was a forgery. They had logged the destroyed painting into evidence. Jones' report got back confirming that the intern had indeed let in a pizza delivery girl at lunch. Since he couldn't leave his desk, the intern had foolishly told the girl to go ahead and put the pizza in the conference room. She left and the intern had thought nothing of it until the painting's had been discovered missing. Neal felt kind of bad for the kid. He definitely wasn't going to get to keep his job after that mistake was out in the open.

Nevertheless, something still bugged the man about it all. His sister wasn't that great of a thief. That was the fault in the entire plan when he had been arrested. He was the thief, his sister was the forger and at the time Alex had been his fence. Once he was taken out of the picture, there was no way that Constance would have been able to get the paintings on her own. Not without outside help. She knew better than to run one-sided heists. Or at least, he thought she would know better. After what he had told her and then after finally getting arrested because of a one-person art heist gone wrong, she should have known that she would be putting herself into danger.

Plus the fact that she hadn't waited until she was out of the city was another big distraction. The stupidity of his sister robbing an art exhibit less than a mile away from the jail she had escaped from was unbelievable. Even for a nineteen year old fugitive desperate for money.

With all the information that had been discovered, there still wasn't enough to work with. Therefore, the agents called it a day, ready to meet back up tomorrow to see if a new forgery had come in with any clues.

Neal was at the door, ready to go home and probably not get any sleep, when Peter called him back. Turning he saw that the agent was holding the surveillance DVD from the folder. The only thing he hadn't had time to see.

Opening a laptop still sitting on the table, Peter put the DVD into the slot. Neal sank into a chair, mesmerized as the black and white movie started. The silence was astounding in the office as they fast-forwarded through the hours before the girl's escape. Right before she appeared on the screen, the agent paused the tape. "Are you sure you want to watch this?"

Neal looked up at him giving the man a look and said, "That's a really stupid question,"

Peter shrugged, "Just making sure,"

He sat down in the chair beside his friend, his finger tapping the laptop absently. He still had not started the tape again. There was a deep intake of breath from the agent and then the video started.

Constance appeared on the screen and Neal found himself biting his tongue. Her hair was a dark auburn tied into an expert braid. She had grown up while he was in prison. The girl was almost like his kid. He felt bad that he had missed her growing up and screwed up any chance at her living a normal life. Somehow she had gotten a hold of a pair of civilian clothes. A brown leather trench coat stood out to him, a gift that she had gotten from Mozzie.

Surprisingly, she was holding a gun to the head of a guard. If there was anyone that hated guns more than he did, it was Constance. The second guard at the front desk looked up as the girl started yelling. His face was blank at first, no surprise, which seemed strange, but the girl's voice distracted Neal. There hadn't been enough guards that night; no one could have stopped her.

"_Open the door, NOW!" _

The second guard complied almost instantly when the girl waved the gun in his direction. A flicker of movement caught Neal's attention by the girl's side. However, as soon as he looked at it, it was gone. The guard at the desk led the girl and the captive guard towards the door. They disappeared from the camera. Here was where Peter stopped the tape.

Neal was quiet, letting everything he had seen sink in. "Something's not right," he said.

"I agree. The guard she took hostage returned to work the next day claiming that the girl had ran as soon as she was a mile away from the jail,"

At this, the ex-con artist gave his partner an interested look. The man shrugged his shoulders as he explained, "I looked into it. But the really interesting thing is…She had only a month on her sentence left,"

Neal felt a smile creep onto his face as he shook his head back and forth, disappointedly, "Must run in the family," he said with a laugh.

There was silence as the both of them sat there, thinking. Neal was trying to understand what he had seen. The video seemed like a movie, planned out and perfect. There was something just too strange about it. He could believe that Constance might have snapped, but not when she was so close to getting out.

"It's not like her, she wouldn't run, not with only a month left," he said, more to himself than anything.

"Are you sure? You did break out for a girl," Peter teased. To this Neal only replied with a glare. The agent nodded slowly, "I'm kidding. I know she wouldn't. That's why it's so strange,"

They replayed the tape one more time, but still nothing stood out to either of them. Nothing other than what was already obvious. The sudden way the other guard complied to her request was the strangest of things, yet each of them knew how a person's own feelings conflicted with their job whenever there was a gun in their face.

By the third time, Neal had let his head collapse into his hands. He had no idea how to handle this. The only clues they had were a suspicious escape and an even more foolish art heist. None of it made any sense. Even stranger was the fact that she hadn't tried to make contact with Mozzie. Almost instantly after his sister had been introduced, the two had hit it off perfectly. Even if she knew that he was helping the FBI, he still didn't think she would ignore Moz, especially if she was still in the city.

Randomly, the ex-con muttered, "She must really hate me,"

"I don't think so," was the mysterious reply from his partner.

Neal looked up, "Like you would know, you didn't look out for her like I asked,"

The pain from their earlier dispute was still there. The problem had not truly been fixed and there was still the core to be reached. Peter realized this, thus he took the man's outburst calmly rather than any other way.

"I tried to. But when I went looking for her, she was gone. She ran off from her foster family and just…disappeared," he replied.

After a moment of silence, Neal said, "That explains the heists,"

"Quick cash," Peter confirmed with a curt nod, "I received her case. I was this close to catching her and then I realized I couldn't,"

The two friends looked at each other. "I realized that I actually understood why she was doing what she was doing. I truly couldn't finish through with the case, but I couldn't just close it, so I passed it on to a colleague,"

Peter's eyes seemed to have darkened, his body in one place while his mind was in the past. Neal was listening intently as he told him the story. He was in jail whenever his sister had been arrested, so it was nice to finally get the details.

"I thought that since the agent didn't have your input, that he would never find anything. I didn't factor in that your sister wouldn't disappear," Peter continued. When he paused he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, handing it to Neal.

"This is why I don't think she hates you, she knew the consequences of trying to see you, but she did anyway,"

Neal unfolded the paper to reveal one of sister's drawings. Tears started to well up in his eyes as he traced his finger over the pencil marks. The drawing was of a tall oak tree. The tree was quite familiar and so was the little girl sitting in the niche between two limbs. On the back was a message written in Constance's messy handwriting. The messiness of her handwriting had always been a mystery to him. Always her painting was perfect, but when she wrote, no one could read it.

"I am finally free," he muttered to himself.

"They arrested her at the front door. She begged me to make sure that it reached you, but for obvious reasons, I couldn't get it to you,"

Peter's voice brought Neal to life. He wiped his hand across his eyes to make sure that none of the tears had escaped. He didn't want to cry here in front of the other man.

"You visited her?"

"Yes," Curiosity nudged at the agent, "How did you know?"

Neal shrugged looking up at him with now dry eyes, "It was just a guess. You did promise to look after her. Thank you for keeping that promise,"

Peter nodded slowly. He was starting to wonder how upset Elizabeth would be at him when he got home. He stood up, popping the DVD out. Seeing the movement, Neal rose also. The agent pulled on his jacket and picked up the laptop. Allowing the consultant to go out the door first, he told him, "Now it's your turn to keep a promise. I want you to promise me you won't do anything stupid,"

"Peter…,"

"Neal,"

The consultant rolled his eyes, "I promise,"

As they walked out, the DVD disappeared into Neal's pocket. In the morning he would put it back on Peter's desk. It would be like it was there all night. He needed to look at something a little more closely.


	10. Worry About You

**Author's Note: Just because I want to go and cover it now. I've only been watching the series for about two/three weeks now. I haven't been able to watch all the episodes, so if any of Neal's life (other than Kate and Peter being the one who caught him) has been revealed, I'm sorry if I got it wrong.**

**Therefore, I guess I can mark this as an AU, just to be on the safe side. This is strange, because I usually don't like AU's. Either way, this chapter gives us a little more insight into the younger years for Cassie and Neal through flashbacks. Hope you enjoy.**

**This chapter's lyrics have been provided by: 2AM **

**(And yes I'm quite aware that it's a love song, but some of the lyrics still fit.)**

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* * *

**

**Worry About You**

Mozzie was already at his house, which saved a lot of extra work that Neal would have had to put into finding him. He was sitting at the table where he once peered over papers about Kate. Now with all that over, he was waiting patiently for his friend to arrive to see what he had found on Constance. Passing the time looking around for a young woman trained to disappear by none other than Neal Caffrey himself was the hardest job ever. Except for finding Neal, of course.

Looking up, he could see it in Neal's eyes that something had changed. "What did you find?"

The man looked over his shoulder not at all surprised to discover Moz. "She's painting," he said.

* * *

_For as long as I can remember  
its been December  
No sun, no summertime to treasure_

_

* * *

_

Mysteriously, he waved the surveillance DVD at the man. Neal smiled at the inquisitiveness that appeared on his friend's face. Opening his own DVD player, he placed the disc into the player. As he fast-forwarded to the part he wanted to see, he urged Mozzie to tell him what he had found.

"Do you want to know the truth?" he asked.

Neal was silent a moment and then he shook his head. "Not really, but I need to know,"

"Nothing. Your sister has faded right off the face of the planet,"

The ex-con artist shook his head, "No. She's still in the city. I'm sure of it,"

* * *

_I won´t say you´re wrong  
But you know that I´ll worry about you_

_

* * *

_

Moz looked back to his piles of papers on the table. "Well, I guess I could scour the entire of New York City for a nineteen year old girl with a suspicious face and auburn hair," he said, sarcastically.

"Good luck," the other man said with a smile. He was trying his best to stay above the sorrow settling over him. If he kept making jokes, maybe he wouldn't completely lose his mind. The bald-man returned to his side and he started the video. When it was over, Moz also agreed that something was afoot.

* * *

_And every time that they told us surrender  
"It will be better"  
We´d just go holding on till forever  
To what we know_

_**

* * *

**_

Neal rewound the video back to the beginning of the girl's escape. He was going to keep watching this until he understood. He played it again except this time; his mind was overtaken by the girl's laughter instead.

"_Find me, Neal!"_

_There were trees everywhere. Dozens surrounding him on each side. They towered over him, stretching their arms out to touch him. A sweet scent made the air worth breathing in. He loved coming back here. As much as the city was his home, this forest always granted him entry with loving arms. _

_Laughter echoed around him. Neal Caffrey was twenty-six years old looking everywhere for the little girl in the trees. He found her finally, wedged in between two limbs. Her bright blue eyes, a perfect match to his, were sparkling with joy. She was drawing, her sketchpad held ever so gently in her lap. She turned the picture towards him, a drawing of his arrival already sketched on the page. "It's beautiful, Cassie," he called back._

"_Earth to Neal," the little girl replied. _

"Earth to Neal!"

Mozzie's voice penetrated the memory, pulling him back to the surface of his thoughts. He had been staring at nothing. Blinking, Neal turned to his friend. The man was watching him with a worried gaze. At first, he didn't understand why until he realized that the disc had stopped. He rewound the disc and continued watching it, sitting in the awkward silence.

* * *

_I made you Believe that _

_I would be the one to heal you_

_

* * *

_

The ex-con had no idea what he was looking for. Maybe some sign that his sister had not completely lost her mind. If the way people said she was acting was true, this would probably end with the young girl in a body bag. When Peter had said they were looking for an emotionally unstable fugitive, there was no joke there and everyone knew it. Though, any part of Constance that was unstable deserved to be, he thought.

Jail wasn't good for anyone, much less a seventeen year old kid with claustrophobia. Plus there was her unsteady childhood to factor in. There was just something about being shot and nearly dying that made you look at life in a cracked sort of view. Neal rewound the tape another time and paused it. He stood up, pacing back and forth.

"Any luck with her financials?" he asked Mozzie.

Why he had ever given his sister her own bank account was beyond him. "I think having the password would help," was the reply.

To this Neal laughed, "After everything that you've stolen or broken into, you can't get the password to Constance's bank account?"

Mozzie snorted, "I can't figure it out, you're sister's insane,"

"And you're not?"

The man did not reply as he continued thinking. The password wasn't something he knew about. He had tried versions of things he knew about the girl, they had all come up blank.

"Try 'central park',"

Moz put it in, shaking his head when the password didn't go through. Neal cursed inwardly. Any speck of information that made sense right now would satisfy him.

"_How long are you staying?"_

_The young man looked to his sister with a sad gaze. He was sitting on the branch of the oak tree, slightly uncomfortable in his suit. Her sketch was still in her lap, but she had long since stopped drawing. The sun had faded to leave them only partial light. _

"_Not long, Cassie," he replied._

_Neal watched the girl's face fall. "You'll miss the august falls again," she said, but then she beamed proudly, "I'm going to paint it,"_

The other man was still having no luck with the password. The consultant spun around, "August falls. Try it, Mozzie!"

* * *

_For as long as she can remember  
She wanted better  
No home, no one there to protect her  
All alone_

_**

* * *

**_

Moz typed in the password and inhaled. He clicked the enter button. A pause stretched on as the page loaded.

"We're in!" the man exclaimed, "Where did you get that?"

Neal tapped his head. He stopped pacing for a second. "There was a forest back behind our house. She claimed that the majority of the leaves fell all at one time,"

The man smiled sadly to himself. "She called it 'august falls'," he paused.

* * *

_I used to write with tears on your pretty painted face_

_**

* * *

**_

Moz flicked his eyes from his friend to the computer screen. Neal had sat down, his face dark as he remembered. "I should have stayed," he muttered to himself.

"_Cassie?" _

_The young girl wasn't in the woods like she usually was. That was strange; she didn't like going home until it was dark. From dawn until dusk she was outside in the tree. Something was wrong. _

_He broke into a run, throwing open the front door. He called his sister's name again. He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the hall. He darted into the dining room and froze. Almost instantly he took in the dead bodies of his parents then searched the rest of the room for his sister. _

_Cassie lay sprawled out on the floor, blood flowering across her shirt. Standing over her was the man who had killed his family, ready to finish the job. Neal ran at him, knocking him out of the way. "Get away from her!" The killer jumped back, facing Neal with a masked. A smart man would have shot him, but it was just his luck; sirens echoed outside as the police arrived. The murderer turned on his heel and ran. Neal didn't follow, he could care less if he got away. Let the police deal with him. _

_He bent over his sister, listening to her raspy breathing. Her eyes were closed, her face pale. He lifted her limp body into his arms, close to tears. "Cass, hey, come on, I need you to wake up," The police poured in. He ignored them entirely, cradling his dying sister in his arms. Pleading, begging her to wake up, to come back to him._

Something suddenly occurred to Neal. Curious to see something, he stood back up, pressing play on the remote. The video played and he watched the flicker of movement again. Once more he rewound and played the video, pausing it right when the movement started. A sudden smile appeared upon his face. "That's it!" he exclaimed.

Rushing forward, he ejected the DVD. He placed it back in its case and called back to Moz as he left. "Keep searching,"

With that he was gone leaving his friend staring perplexed at the door.

* * *

_When you wake up from your dreams to the hallway  
Sleepwalking through the streets dressed in all gray  
Blinking streetlamps in the window pane  
I worried from the second that I learned your name_


	11. Hear Me Now

**Hear Me Now**

Elizabeth always slept soundly beside her husband. Though she knew that his job put her in danger, she always felt safe. When he was home, she felt even safer. Nevertheless, she knew when she needed to be alert.

Returning from the bathroom at four in the morning, the woman was startled by a loud thump downstairs. She paused where she was, listening. There was another thump and this time Elle knew what to do. Quietly, so not to alert the intruder, she snuck back into her bedroom. She nudged Peter whose eyes blinked open, staring groggily at her.

"There's someone here," she whispered.

Instantly, the man was out of bed. Adrenaline flooded through his veins, fueling his awareness. He grabbed his gun from the bedside drawer, motioning for his wife to stay put. Peter started at the door, poking his head out into the hall. It was clear. He walked towards the stairs, his heart thumping against his chest. Blood pounded in his ears. He could hear the intruder's footsteps as the ascended the stairs. A shadow appeared on the wall.

"Who's there?" he yelled out.

For a moment there was silence, only heavy breathing. The agent moved a little closer to the shadow that had paused on the stairs. Hesitantly, the shadow started to move forward again. Peter stiffened his grip on his gun and stepped forward.

"Identify yourself or I shoot,"

Breathlessly, a voice called out, "Peter, don't!"

The familiar voice reached the man's ears. Anger replaced his fear as he flicked on the hall light. There, at the top of the stairs, stood Neal Caffrey, breathing heavily and as white as a ghost. Peter had the suspicion that the man had run all the way to his house only to be scared by his gun.

"Neal!" he hissed, "What the hell are you doing?"

His breath was coming too quickly for him to answer with words. Instead, he shook his head.

"Neal?"

The ex-con artist peered over his friend's shoulder. The agent looked too to find his wife standing at the doorway leading to their room. Elizabeth took in the sight of Neal, flustered and white-faced and at her husband wide-awake and angry.

"I'll start some coffee," she said with a smile, slipping past them and down the stairs.

The two friends stared each other down before finally Peter waved the other down the stairs. Neal complied with no complaint, following Elle as the smell of coffee wafted through the house. Peter grudgingly followed after.

Thirty minutes later the three of them were all sitting down at the dining room table. Neal looked agitated, twiddling his fingers together, annoyed at the thought of waiting any longer. Nonetheless, he wanted Peter to listen. The agent didn't like to listen when he bugged him, so the ex-con restrained himself. The man didn't touch his coffee though he thanked Elle graciously for it anyway. He had the feeling that if he ate something, he would puke.

By the time Peter was starting with his second cup, he was wide awake. Elizabeth wanted to go back to sleep. Nevertheless, she stayed up, hoping to provide Neal with the comfort that her husband lacked in these kinds of situations. When the agent took a deep breath, the consultant's head snapped up. Noticing this, the agent sighed putting down his cup of coffee.

"Okay, Neal. What is so important that you had to come down here and scare the living daylights out of me and my wife?"

Out of his pocket, Neal pulled out the DVD. He quickly interrupted his partner, who recognized it instantly.

"I found something,"

Before the other man could say anything, he had popped the disc in. Though he was angry, Peter reluctantly moved into his living room as the consultant fast-forwarded the video.

"I wanted to look at something a little more closely," Neal started.

"You stole it!" was the agent's furious reply.

The ex-con artist looked over his shoulder with a thwarted face. "Borrowed," he corrected.

Peter rolled his eyes. Neal continued, "I'm glad that I did,"

By this time, he had finally reached the part he wanted to show. He paused it, his finger circling the area around the hostage's coat.

"Watch,"

With that, he pressed play. Peter watched intently as the same flicker of movement his friend had seen met his eyes.

"Okay, so what? I've already seen this," he snapped, starting to get annoyed at being woken up so early.

Neal said nothing as he put the video back to right before movement. This time he put it on slow play. Each frame that the camera saw flashed on the screen. It reminded the man of those little picture books that moved when you flipped through the pages really fast.

The agent thought he might have seen something. Once more his friend rewound it and played it frame by frame. Then suddenly he paused it right before the flicker started. Peter stared closely at the spot Neal pointed at. His eyes opened wide when he thought he had an idea of what he was looking at.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"If you're thinking gun, you are correct!" cried Neal, almost pleased with himself.

The agent leaned back in shock. Seeing that Peter was catching on, the consultant replayed the part at normal speed. They watched as the silver muzzle of a gun poked out from under the guard's jacket. The guard who supposedly had been taken hostage by a deranged prisoner. The man jabbed it into the girl's side, urging her on. On cue, Constance waved her gun in the direction of the other guard. The flicker of movement was actually the supposedly hostage guard suddenly covering the gun when the other gave an almost imperceptible nod to warn him. The video stopped. Neal looked over to Peter in anticipation.

"Constance is the real hostage?" muttered Peter.

"Looks like it," Neal replied, miserably.

The look on Elizabeth's face was horrified. She didn't like the thought of the young girl, even if she was technically an adult, being held hostage and being framed at the same time. "Why would anyone do such a thing?" she asked.

Peter looked to Neal because he had no idea. The consultant shook his head as well. He had an idea, but he wasn't quite ready to share it with Peter yet. Not until he was sure.

"Maybe he needed her to steal and forge the paintings. Though it's very unlikely,"

Peter shook his head. None of this made any sense. It seemed that the more clues they got, the more confusing it all seemed. Neal was curled up into a tight ball, his face pinched with tension. The agent couldn't blame him. He had found out his sister was missing, which was alright, if a little bothersome. Now, he knew that she wasn't just missing, she was in danger. It was like reliving the search for Kate all over again.

"We need to talk to that guard," Neal said, quietly.

Before anyone else could say anything, Peter's phone rang. He answered it. After a few curt 'Oks', he hung up and turned to the ex-con.

"Another painting came in. Diana went ahead and took a look at it,"

Neal looked up expectantly. Peter's face was tense and full of anguish. He didn't want to tell the man what he knew. But now there was no going back.

"There was blood on the painting,"


	12. World So Cold

**Author's Note: This chapter's lyrics are brought to you by: Three Days Grace**

**

* * *

**

**World So Cold**

The pain didn't really bother Constance. She had been subjected to worse before. Of course, that didn't make it any less uncomfortable. At the moment, the young girl stared captivatingly at her fingers. Her painting had been finished by light of a lantern. Her captor had held it there, a gun to her head, urging her to paint faster. Then he had taken the painting back to the exhibit.

Meanwhile, she had hidden the injury, not ready to upset him any more than already was. Nevertheless, due to her inability to finish the painting in time, the man had refused to give her water or food. She could care less about that now. The blood however was starting to make her sick. Pieces of skin had been ripped out of her hands. Apparently, her psychotic attack of the canvas with the steel wool had not only torn through her gloves, but her hands as well.

Alone again in the dark, Constance tried to keep herself calm. She had nothing to do to take her mind of the fear. There was no canvas to paint on. The man had taken her only light too. The young girl clenched her eyes shut. Outside she heard cars honking and sirens wailing in the distance. The old smell of hot dogs wafted in the closed windows. Her stomach growled, but she pushed it away. That was the least of her problems at the moment.

The guard was going to be angry when he got back. Earlier, when the wounds had been fresh, she could paint. Now they hurt too much to unclench them. Blood dripped slowly, staining her coat. Faintly she felt angry that the gift was being destroyed.

* * *

_I never thought I'd feel this  
Guilty and I'm broken down inside  
Livin' with myself nothing but lies_

_

* * *

_

The sirens came closer; they would never come close enough. Constance couldn't take it. She was going to die. After all this time, all the willpower she had put into staying alive this long. Nineteen years was a long time for someone like her. She had survived the long intervals between Neal's visits. In the hospital fighting for her life. Through her time in jail. Unfortunately here, she could do nothing to save herself.

The teenager started rocking back and forth. She couldn't breathe, the darkness was pulling her in. The memories were taking hold. All she could imagine was the crate she had been locked into more than once when she was a kid. No air, she was dying. She could barely move; the space was much too small. Dad was mad again. She or her brother had done something wrong. Neal had to play 'The Game' to save her. If he didn't reach her in time she was gone for good. The thought had always bothered her. Nevertheless, Neal had always reached her in time.

A sudden realization occurred to her. Neal had never told her what exactly dad had made him do. She didn't like pondering on it for very long. Hope fluttered into her heart when she thought of her brother. She shot it down just as instantly. There was no way Neal was going to stop her captor in time. Not unless she warned him and even if she did, Constance realized there was no way she was getting out of this alive. The girl felt a useful memory skirt to the surface, but she missed it. Two days without water was starting to make her head feel fuzzy.

* * *

_I always thought I'd make it  
But never knew I'd let it get so bad  
Livin' with myself is all I have_

_

* * *

_

She edged towards the window. Dawn was breaking, spreading light in all directions. The best moment in time, Constance believed. When the new day started, dawn coming to chase away the darkness. In spite of this, she still had no hope. The window was nailed shut and there were bars on the outside. She slammed her hands against it anyway, trying to alert some early walkers. As expected it didn't work. She kept on though, her dilemma taking control of sanity.

She screamed for help, but a few seconds later her voice was gone. Eventually she slid down the wall, tears finally breaking through. They poured down her defeated face in silence. A door slammed behind her. Fear coursed through her veins as she turned around.

Her captor was walking in, partially dressed in his uniform. In his hands he carried his bulletproof vest and an open bottle of water. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned and he was sweating. Constance could not help but think that he really needed a shower. As she wiped her tears away, the man laid his vest down on her chair and started walking towards her.

"Good morning, Cassie,"

The teenager did not reply. An idea was beginning to form inside her head. She had doubts that it would work. Nonetheless, she had very little hope of saving anyone, it was at least worth a try.

Rushing forward, pretending to grab for the water, the girl tripped. With deft fingers, she pulled what she needed from the man's pocket. The guard pushed her away, angrily and the girl was glad to get away from his stench.

"You clumsy twit!" he yelled.

* * *

_I feel numb  
I can't come to life  
I feel like I'm frozen in time_

_

* * *

_

Constance forced herself to swallow. She took a deep breath then spoke. Her voice was still hoarse, but at least it was there.

"I'm sorry. I'm really thirsty and it's just so hot in here," she explained, looking suddenly to her coat, "It would probably help if I took this off,"

Slipping her jacket over her shoulders, she placed it down on the chair. The only thing she didn't expect was what happened next. Suddenly, the guard grabbed her wrist, yanking her towards him. His eyes were scanning over the newly formed scabs and dried blood covering her hands. She tried to pull away, a twinge of pain in her fingers.

"What have you done?" her captor hissed.

Constance did not answer. Angrily the guard backhanded her. She bit back her cries knowing it would only make him angrier. The man pulled her close to his face. The young teen wrinkled her nose at the rancid smell of his breath.

"Did you do this on purpose? So you couldn't paint anymore?" he snapped.

Once again, she did not reply. In her head, Constance realized that she might have done that exact thing had she not wanted to paint so bad. Not that it would have helped her predicament any more. The man's rage rose at her silence. Growling, he slung her away. He watched as the girl hit the edge of the table and slid to the floor. With a furious yell he slung the water bottle at her. Liquid splashed all over the wall and the girl's limp body.

A few minutes later, after his anger had subsided, he buttoned up his shirt. Slowly, he walked over to his hostage. He kicked her first. When she didn't move, he bent down to check her pulse. Once he was sure that the teenager was still alive, he walked out of the room. He still had to get to work. He did not worry much about leaving his hostage alone for hours on end. When he had rented the apartment, he had changed the doorknobs. He could lock the door from the outside and there was only a plain knob on the other side. There was no way she could get out.

* * *

_Livin' in a world so cold, wasting away  
Livin' in a shell with no soul since you've gone away_

_

* * *

_

Waiting for the car door to slam outside, Constance tried to keep her breathing even. Only when she was completely sure that her captor was gone, did she pick herself up off the floor. She groaned at the pain erupting in her head. She touched the bump glad to find it wasn't bleeding. The teen was sure that if she saw another drop of blood, she was going to puke.

Water dripped into her eyes, soaking her hair entirely. Absently she licked it, not caring much about where it was coming from. A weak smile crept onto her face. Her plan might actually work. It had to. She wasn't the only one in danger.

* * *

_I'm too young to lose my soul  
I'm too young to feel this old  
So long, I'm left behind  
I feel like I'm losing my mind_


	13. Sell Your Soul

**Sell Your Soul**

Waiting in the lobby of a jail wasn't at the top of Neal's to-do list at the moment. Peter was not too happy about it either. Unfortunately, they had to wait or the warden's permission to talk to any of his guards. That was made extra difficult by the fact that he was miles away.

It was good in some ways, allowing the consultant some time to breathe. He felt like he could beat someone until they bled. He had no idea what to do in this situation. As far as he believed it, he had never been that great of a protector. Constance had been through so much because of him. Long before his arrest, he had taught her how to paint, giving her a way to escape. Once she had learned, she had never stopped. The girl had loved nothing more than to find a way to escape the pain. Neal had given that to her, but that had been the only good thing he had done. He had forgotten about her, more worried about his own heists than to care for his sister's safety. She had almost died because of him and now, he was sure that this was going to end the same way.

Finally, the warden arrived with an angry look at the agent for interrupting his day off. Almost instantly he started yelling at them. Peter took it calmly though his patience was waning. Nevertheless, when he finally got a moment to interject, he took it.

"Two of your guards are suspected in assisting in the escape of Cassie Davis four days ago,"

Disbelief flashed across the warden's red face. "You're wrong. This is a respectable facility geared towards getting these offenders back on their feet once they leave. The guards would not help an inmate escape; they know the consequences for both guard and inmate,"

Peter stood up and placed a blown up print-out of the video. The warden stared closely at where the agent pointed. His eyes took a moment to make out what he was looking at, but as soon as he realized, he choked.

The warden became instantly cooperative after that. There was a whole bunch more waiting as the man tried to locate his two guards. Once he did, however, he was more than happy to lead the two to talk to them.

As they headed outside, anticipation echoed through Neal's body. He was so close to figuring it out, he was so near to finding her. Up ahead, they caught sight of the two guards taking their break in front of the jail. Unfortunately, the guards also caught sight of them. Peter waited and sure enough, they broke out into a run. That instantly confirmed their guilt. No one could really tell that he or Neal had any connection to the FBI. There was just something about seeing two scowling men and your boss walking towards you that set off a guilty mind.

Peter and Neal gave chase while the warden screamed for someone to close the gates. His voice did not carry far enough in time. The two guards were gone, disappearing into the crowds. Without a word, Peter and Neal knew they had to split up. Each of them went a different way, chasing after their chosen runaway.

* * *

Peter was getting tired, he could feel it in his knees, but he knew he couldn't give in. The guard up ahead was younger than him, maybe even younger than Neal. That meant he was lithe in his movements, weaving in and out of the crowd. Nevertheless, Peter was a trained agent. He knew how to follow the pattern that was practically obvious.

The guard turned onto another street. This one had fewer people, smaller crowds. Which was bad for him because now Peter had an even bigger chance to catch up. A spurt of energy flooded through him. He was gaining on the other man. This was important, a life was hanging in the balance.

* * *

In the opposite direction, Neal Caffrey was having a whole lot more trouble with his runaway than Peter. The man he was chasing was the complete opposite of the younger man. Older with slow reflexes, but he was smart. He had nearly tricked the ex-con artist once already. Angry at himself for getting tricked, the man had kept on. He needed to catch this man. He was another clue, another stepping stone to finding his sister. For all he knew, the guard he was chasing could be the man who was holding his sister hostage. Of course, he also could have just broken her out for someone else entirely.

There was a flicker of color up ahead. The guard had turned onto the alleyway. Neal grinned. If there was one thing he knew about alleys. A majority of them lead to a dead end. He turned, slowing down as he reached the dead end he had thought about. There was only one problem. The guard was nowhere to be seen.

Dread filled the consultant as he turned his head every which way. The alley was empty of any human beings except him. A pile of clothes grabbed his attention. Walking forward, he kicked at the pile barely surprised to find that they were the guard's uniform shirt. Neal cursed, punching at the wall. In his eagerness, he had let himself be tricked yet again. The guard had not run into alley, but thrown his shirt. The color had taken Neal's attention instead. Rushing to the mouth of the alley, he ran into the crowd, searching everywhere. The man was gone.

The consultant did not have any more time to ponder on his thoughtlessness when his phone rang. From the caller ID he recognized it as Peter.

"I caught one," Peter said, "What about you?"

Relief started to settle Neal's stomach a little. At least there was still one piece of the puzzle left.

"Neal?"

"He got away,"

Peter sighed, silence making the consultant uncomfortable. "Meet me back at the office,"

"Alright," was Neal's quiet answer.

"And Neal,"

"Yeah, Peter?"

"Don't waste any time, get back here now,"

With that the line cut off and Neal started walking back in the direction he had come.

* * *

The guard's name was Dalton Wallace. He was thirty-seven years old with only a high-school diploma and some police officer training. He was a married-man trying his best to support his jobless wife and two daughters. Or so he told Neal and Peter. With his wind-swept hair and shave, he was hardly recognizable as the desk guard from the tape. But it was definitely him.

Together, the two partners agreed that there was obvious motive for their theory. Now all they needed was for Wallace to admit it. Sitting in his claimed chair, Neal watched the unfolding quietly. The interrogation was Peter's expertise. He was just there to offer information when the time arose. Also, he was there to notice the nervousness that came with the feeling of being cornered with no where else to go.

"Tell us about Cassie Davis' escape,"

The guard looked up. He was sweating, his eyes darting all around the room. He knew what this meant for him. He knew he only had two choices. Only one of those was the best choice, he thought. Slowly, he straightened up.

"Well, I was at the desk that night. Around midnight, Davis shows up with a gun held against the back of George Brown's head," the man paused, checking for the reaction of his 'audience'.

There was no change on either Neal's or Peter's face. Unsure about his story, he continued.

"I work at a minimum security jail; we don't have enough night guards. There was only one other guard and if I had called him for help he would have left all the other inmates unattended. That would have been chaos," Wallace looked down at his hands, unclasping them as he became more confident in his speech, "I had to let her out. For everyone else's safety,"

Finished, he leaned back in his chair, a cocky smile forcing its way onto his face. Peter almost felt compelled to let loose a smug smirk in return whenever he laid the print-out in front of the man.

"We have a surveillance tape showing Officer Brown holding a gun to Ms. Davis's side and you warning him that it was visible. Now, tell me. Are you sure that this was just you protecting the lives of you and your partner?"

Wallace's smile had faded. The sweat had returned, forming in bright beads on his forehead. His eyes met Neal's, his attention caught when the consultant sat up, waiting for him to tell the truth. Their eyes met. Stunning blue, the likes that the guard had never seen met his dark brown ones. He tried; he really did, to fight the fear that was brought on by the look. There was nothing really menacing in the other man's gaze, but there was definitely something there. He turned back to Peter.

"Brown said that the girl was really good. That we could make some fast cash by making her forge some paintings," he blurted out.

Agent Burke smiled, nodding as he looked over to Neal. The ex-con artist, unobserved by the guard, winked at his partner.

"Go on," the agent urged.

Wallace gulped, but continued, "He got her to steal the paintings at the art exhibit down the street. He got himself hired as the guard for that day, so before opening time after lunch he had been able to cover up anything she had left behind,"

Neal finally couldn't stand to stay silent. He leaned forward in his chair, flipping a page in the folder on the table. He looked up, his eyes meeting the guard's. The guard looked away, down at his fingers as he nervously twiddled them together.

"Did it ever occur to you what would happen to the girl?" he asked, his voice eerily soft.

At this Wallace was actually taken aback. He considered the question for a moment before he sadly shook his head. This time he actually held Neal's gaze when he looked up. "It didn't occur to me. At the time, she was nothing more than a criminal,"

Anger rushed through Peter, now. As little as he knew about the life that Constance had been through, he still knew a little about her. The way people treated each other was uncalled for. The teenager had never done anything and they had forced her to commit two crimes just for the sake of making them a little money. He pushed Neal back who also was getting out of his seat, his rage already evident on his face. Reluctantly, the consultant sank into his seat, allowing Peter to step forward.

Placing Constance's mug-shot in front of the guard, the agent pointed at it. Wallace stared at the girl's dark auburn hair. The way she looked at the camera, as if she cared less that any of this was happening.

"This _criminal_ is a nineteen year old kid, almost as old as your eldest daughter, Mr. Wallace. She could be dying right now; all because you thought she was nothing more than an inmate at your jail,"

To this, the guard had no answer. He just hung his head dejectedly knowing that everything the agent was telling him was true. He would never forgive himself for this. There was no way that he could. The image of his own daughter, forced to escape from jail at gun point, just like he had made Cassie do, was now stamped in his head. He knew now that what he had done was wrong, the only problem was there was no way for him to take it back.

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**Author's Note: This chapter has been edited. Thank you to all those who pointed out my mistake. I did not notice age issue. Thanks a bunch. I also added the bit about Neal getting slightly upset at the man. XD**

**Hope you liked the chapter!**


	14. Pleads and Postcards

**Author's Note: Oh….I hate this chapter. It's so short…..Oh well. Hope you enjoy it anyway.**

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**Pleads and Postcards**

In his office, Peter sat brooding about the day's events. Officer Brown had disappeared. Whether that meant he had already killed Constance or not was a missing piece of the puzzle. A very daunting piece that needed to be found. No matter how bad the news, it would have been better than no news at all.

Both Peter and Neal knew how fast the clock was ticking now. They had revealed to the kidnapper that they were on the trail. It had spooked him. Spooked people on the run usually made snap decisions. Snap decisions such as killing a useless hostage. Those kinds of decisions caused trouble for everyone. His accomplice had told them everything he knew, but it wasn't enough. Nevertheless, Wallace wasn't going to be seeing his wife and daughters anytime soon. Not unless it was through a Plexiglas screen.

Neal had gone to get some air after nearly choking Wallace to death. Every tendril of his self-control had been spent during the interrogation. But when the guard had been escorted out, he had told them that he thought the government owned people like Cassie and Neal. The agent had ignored it. He was used it by now. A suspect would continuously change their stance on the situation plying for the sympathy of each party. Neal, however, wasn't having any of it. It had taken both Jones and Peter to pull the consultant back and the man had still left with a rough spot around his neck. In a quiet voice, Peter had asked his partner to take a break. Meanwhile he continued searching for any sign of Officer Brown's whereabouts.

A familiar melody started playing. Stress, at first, convinced Peter that it was all in his head. He thought he had officially lost his mind. Only when he felt the vibrations of the table did he realize that it was his phone. Picking up the silver shape, he saw that it was an unknown number. Honestly, he hated answering unknown number calls. They usually were useless and a waste of his time. However, there was always the chance that it was someone who really needed him.

"Hello?"

"Is this Agent Peter Burke?"

Instantly, the man sat up a little straighter in his chair. The fuzzy feeling of sleep that had been entering his mind vanished and he was able to think clearly again. Expectantly, he looked through the glass to see if Neal had returned. He could never mistake the deviously innocent, honey-filled voice. No matter how hoarse it sounded.

"Constance," he breathed.

On the other end of the line, the young adult chuckled weakly. It seemed that even Peter was worried about her.

"Hey," she replied, her voice almost a whisper.

Her sweaty hands clenched tightly to her kidnapper's phone. These wonderful people in her life, they were making her plan so much harder to carry out. The agent finally found the ability to talk again.

"Where are you?" he inquired.

Peter heard the tell-tale sound of a sob as the girl choked it back.

"I don't know," was the grief stricken response.

Agent Burke was standing up now. Maybe if he got down to the tech department fast enough, he could get a trace. As if the universe had realized his plant and decided against it, Constance let in a sudden intake of breath. Standing at the glass doors by now, the agent froze.

"What's wrong?"

"He's back," she answered, the fear rising in her hoarse voice, "I don't have much time. I need you to give a message to Neal,"

Peter groaned. This was heading in all the wrong directions. Codes, messages, they were just too much. Neal had probably had enough of them with Kate. All they did was bring bad news. He pressed the down button on the elevator.

"Just stay on the line, I'm going to get a trace on the phone,"

Constance heard him, but ignored the plea. She did not have the time to wait.

"Tell him 'Don't play the game',"

The realization that the teen was ending the phone call settled on Peter. He stopped breathing, his heart twisting in his chest. There was an almost tired sigh from the girl.

"And Peter?" she began

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," she paused, "For everything,"

Without giving him a chance to respond, the connection was lost. At the same moment, Peter looked p to see that his partner was walking out of the elevator. Instantly, Neal's face was overcome with worry.

"What is it?" he asked his friend who was just now putting his phone away.

Peter looked up, meeting the blue eyes cautiously.

"Constance called,"

Hope beamed across the younger man's face making the agent feel even worse for being the bearer of bad news. Quietly, the agent relayed the message that the consultant's sister had left for him.

In horror, Peter watched as all the color drained from Neal's face leaving him whiter than Santa's beard after a blizzard. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other, fear beating in the consultant's heart.

"What does it mean?" Peter finally asked, worried about this new development and the obviously terrible reaction it had on Neal.

The consultant shook his head, his hand against his temple. "Trouble,"


	15. Speeding Cars

**Author's Note: Happy Birthday to me! I'm officially one year older yesterday and yet my story continues. XD! I was going to post this yesterday, but FFN didn't want to load. **

**I'll be sure to update soon. But I'm going to be without internet for a week. In the meantime, however, anyone who might be interested in seeing the fan video I made for this story can find it by copying the following link (with no spaces) into the url bar. **

**http:/ www. youtube. com /watch? v=-xaV7EqYKTo**

**Hope that you enjoy both this chapter and the video. (Please feel free to comment or rate on the video. Cassie asks that you do. She likes the attention XD!)**

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**Speeding Cars**

Brown walked in just as Constance stuffed the phone in her pocket. She collapsed against the wall, her heart beating rapidly inside her ribcage. She could feel the last of her strength fading away. Hunger now roared in her stomach like a hurricane, but she barely noticed it anymore with all the other problems crashing down on her. Her throat was scratched from screaming and her eyes were red and blotchy from crying. Not to mention that her brain was throbbing.

Her kidnapper was in the worst mood yet. At first, he completely ignored her which she did not mind a bit. Constance kept herself as far away from him as possible. It was obvious that he was angry. The way he glared at her paint set and easel and the heavy breathing as if he had just run miles to get there.

Suddenly, he slashed a hand across the desk. Paint brushes flew every which way, paint bottles scattering across the room. The girl jumped to the left, the easel hitting her leg instead. Responding to her yells, Brown laughed. His eyes flashed with a sinister light as he walked towards her.

Constance hugged the wall, trying to back away from the man, but having no room to move. He leaned forward, grabbing her around the arm. It took little effort to force the girl to her feet, dragging her to the nearest closet. Meanwhile, she took the chance to get rid of the phone. As mad as the man was, she definitely did not want him to see her with it.

Trying to distract him from her pocket-slip technique, Constance fought against his grip. She knew what was happening. She would not allow herself to be locked in the dark again. There was not much that she could do however in her weakened state. Brown waited it out, allowing the girl to tire herself before finally shoving her into the closet. Constance jolted up, but the door was slammed in her face. She slammed her fists against the wood, terrified of letting her fear of the dark take over. She heard a key click in the doorknob.

"Stay calm, Cassie, dear. I'm bringing you a gift," he said, his tone persuasively smooth, confirming for her that something bad was getting ready to happen.

The teenager listened as the man walked off. She heard the front door slam as he left the apartment. Constance collapsed. Her eyes wouldn't adjust to the pitch black dark. They never did. Her fear always got the better of her. Not matter how old she got. She felt that someone or something was watching her. There could have been a hand reaching out for her and she would never know.

Sobs rose in her throat as she brought her knees up to her chest. With her scabbed hands, she covered her eyes. Softly humming a comforting lullaby as she rocked back and forth, she thought of the few happy thoughts she had. She did not know what her captor had in store for her, but she had a pretty good idea.

Through the influence of her fear and attempts to forget what was going on, her imagination took over. The smell of apples rose around her. The scent wafted into her nose and into the small space, squeezing her tightly. She knew that the smell couldn't be real, she was imagining it. Nevertheless, she felt safer with the smell of apples close by. They reminded her of everything she loved. Neal and painting.

* * *

"_Cassie, come on now, get back here!" _

_The little girl was five, trying to get her brother to chase her. In her left hand she clenched a paint brush as she ran around in circles. Eventually Neal caught up with her, grabbing her gently around the waist and hoisting her onto his knee. Their eyes met, the older man staring seriously at his sister. _

"_Do you want to learn to paint or not?" he asked._

_Cassie looked from her brother to the table, a sight which would soon be stamped into her head forever. On the table sat three objects that would soon mean the world to the girl. An easel already prepped with paper, a small collection of paints and a red apple. Finally, Cassie looked back to the man and nodded her head._

_Sitting her back down at the table, Neal showed his sister how to hold the brush. He showed her how to stroke the brush, how to mix the colors to get the right shade. As expected, the girl struggled. When she became frustrated, Neal only smiled and carefully took the paintbrush from Cassie's hands. She watched, mesmerized as he painted the apple, blending the strokes to account for the different shades. _

"_You have to treat the paintbrush as a part of you, not as a separate unit. Your hand and the paintbrush are one and the same," he explained, knowing that most of what he was saying would go over the five year olds head._

_Pulling away, he showed his sister what he was talking about. A bright smile broke out on her face as she took the paintbrush back. Neal watched as she did her best to copy him. Still, she did not quite get it. Not that he had expected her to. Flashing his signature smile, he tousled the girl's short golden-brown hair. _

"_You'll get it, just keep trying,"_

_

* * *

_

'Keep trying'. She had done that indeed, Constance thought as the memory started to fade. Never did she forget the words her brother had told her. Everything he taught her was still vivid in her mind. At least it was the better of the memories that still remained.

Sleep overcame the girl, though she was sure that if she had not been so malnourished, she probably would not have been able to. Her sleep was dreamless, which at the time was probably bliss for her. Nothing disturbed her while she snoozed away the pain. The first moments of peace that she had gotten since her 'escape' were in that small nap. Even so, all good things had to come to an end.

Constance felt herself jolted awake as a rough arm yanked her to her feet. The teenager blinked trying to clear the darkness from her eyes. Fear rushed through her when she realized that it wasn't clearing. Maybe she had gone blind too. But then she saw the window and discovered that it was nighttime already. The fear, however, did not diminish as her captor flashed a light in her eyes. She blinked, blinded for a few seconds, wishing she had lost her hearing rather than her sight.

"I brought you a wonderful present. I missed so many of your birthdays, I thought I would make up for it," said the sinister voice that had haunted the majority of Constance's nightmares for many years.

The flashlight moved away and Constance waited until the black spots faded. Her eyes moved to see what the light now illuminated in the far corner. The young girl felt her heart stop, her breath choking in her lungs. All this time she had been sure that she was going to die. So sure that she was practically ready for it now. She had expected that the man would shoot her or strangle her. Neither took hardly any effort and it wasn't any different than what she was used to. Nonetheless, her captor seemed to have different plans.

Constance stared fearfully at the object. Because, tucked in the farthest corner of the room, not far enough in her opinion, was a large wooden chest. There was a lock already prepared in front of it and the lid was open. Just waiting for it's occupant to be locked inside.

"Let's play a game," hissed the voice.


	16. All the Right Moves

**All the Right Moves**

Neal Caffrey stared at the unfinished chess game with contempt. Moz was trying to keep him occupied. He knew that and a small part of the consultant appreciated it. Another part of him saw it as annoying. He was wasting time that he could have been using to get a head start on looking for Constance. Not that it would have helped. He couldn't do anything until he was given the instructions. The information he had learned was starting to eat at him. He knew exactly what was going to happen next. All he had to do was wait now. He was sure that everything would unfold the way he was used to it.

Mozzie moved another piece and called out, "Checkmate," Neal sighed, standing up. Why was this happening to him again? Was there any way that he could escape this nightmare? People said that history was always destined to repeat itself. He had never truly believed it. But now he realized he was going to have to start thinking a little more about considering it as truth. Moz looked up, opening his mouth to ask to play another game. The consultant raised his hand, his eyes glazed over with sadness.

"No more, Moz," he pleaded.

He walked out onto the balcony, leaning over the side. Manhattan was beautiful at night, the lights shining brightly in his eyes. All the different colors blending together. For a moment, it distracted him from his current dilemma, wrapping him in a wonderful chaos.

Thoughts pushed through his barriers, his sister's message ringing in his ears. _Don't play the game._ Both of them knew what it meant and now so did Peter. Neal knew that his sister was warning him away from her. 'The Game' caused trouble for the both of them. Trouble that could get him locked up in prison again or worse, killed. She was willing to die to make sure that he stayed out of the line of fire. Yet, there was no way on Earth that he would leave his sister to die.

Inside the house, the phone rang. Neal flinched, his heart twisting inside him. He had to make a decision on what he was going to do. Moz looked up with sympathetic eyes. He did not have any siblings of his own, but he understood the pain that this caused Neal. The consultant felt his feet guide him back inside, the warmth surrounding him. He stared at the phone letting it ring into silence. Slowly he felt his breathing restart. The call had passed and he hadn't answered. With the way the rules went that means he had just forfeited. Constance was going to die now.

Neal leaned over the table, his infuriation with letting the moment pass taking over him. How could he have been so stupid to not answer the phone? His sister needed him. She was the younger one, not him. He didn't have to listen to her. But, he had and now it was going to get her killed. Mozzie patted him on the shoulder as glistening tears started to well up in Neal's eyes.

Suddenly, the phone rang again taking both of them by surprise. The phone never rang twice; he couldn't let this chance go by. Without another moment's hesitation, Neal grabbed the cell of the table and clicked the talk button.

"Hello?"

"Why, Neal, I never thought I would hear your voice again,"

Grimacing, the consultant shot his friend a look. They had been right about everything. Not that he had doubted for a minute after he had seen the tape.

"The feeling is mutual," he countered, sarcastically.

The voice on the other line laughed. "Now, now Neal, that's no way to talk to your dead father,"

Neal bared his teeth in anger. For a moment he actually forgot what was at stake.

"You were no more my father than I am the original painter of the _Mona Lisa_,"

Jonathan Caffrey was not pleased with this statement. He made it known by growling angrily.

"Let's play a game, Neal,"

The consultant's heart skipped a beat. His head whirled with thoughts. He knew that this had been coming and it still hit him like brick wall. Taking a deep breath, he did his best to slow his racing heart.

"Don't you think I am a little old for games?" he snapped back, "Where's Cassie?"

The other man on the phone ignored him.

"You remember the rules, right Neal?" he asked, knowing full well that his son would never forget, "Cassie has been locked away somewhere and she's running out of air. Bring me what I want and I'll give you a clue to find her,"

Neal felt his entire soul collapse at his father's explanation. Everything he had worked so hard to get. The somewhat 'good guy' status he had gathered. The trust he had earned from Peter and the bureau. All of it was going to be thrown away tonight with this stupid game. However, a life was going to be thrown away if he did not play. The odds were stacked against him. He had no choice. No matter what he did, he was going to lose the game.

He had no doubt of what his sister was enduring. This game had been their father's favorite for years. Neal had thought it was over. He had convinced himself that when John had killed his wife, nearly killed his daughter and replaced his neighbor as himself, that they would never see their deranged father again. That he was gone for good. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no escape. The clue his sister had left told him she wanted him to stay out of it. In spite of that, he would not allow himself to abandon her to a slow, agonizing death by oxygen starvation. He sighed, gathering all his strength.

"Alright, let's play,"

John chuckled excitedly, noticing his son's obvious resignation.

"Your lady friend with a name like a summer month, owns a very expensive painting. One that I like very much. Bring it to St. Paul's Churchyard. There is a bell in the cemetery, place it there. I will call you with further instructions," he spouted off the instructions as if reading a piece of paper.

Neal shivered. At some point in time, his father had gotten into June's house. Somehow he had learned her name and he had seen this painting. Strangely though, the man felt that this particular game was easier than the others. He did not know why, but there was still one problem to deal with in getting it to him.

"Which painting?" he asked.

Mr. Caffrey laughed heartily at this. He enjoyed toying with his son. It brought him never-ending entertainment.

"You have two hours. Give or take, depending on how calm Cassie stays," the man laughed.

The phone connection ended and Neal laid the object down with a faux calm spreading through him. Seeing his eyes, Mozzie knew what came next.

"What are you going to do?" he asked his friend.

Neal looked to his left to see a flashlight on his bedside table. He walked over to it, snatching it up. The metal felt cold in his sweaty hands, almost like a gun handle.

"I'm going to find that painting," he said, walking towards his bedroom door.

Moz got up to follow him. Having heard some of the conversation on speaker, he knew what was happening. "June has dozens of paintings,"

Neal looked back with a twinkle in his eyes, but no smile.

"Then we better start looking for one that _he _would like,"


	17. You Don't Own Me

**You Don't Own Me**

Neal scoured the entire first floor, Mozzie on his heels. He did his best to keep quiet, but he really did not care about what happened next. Nothing mattered if he could not find the painting. But Mozzie had not been exaggerating when he had mentioned that June had dozens of paintings. Just in the dining room alone there were twelve.

The consultant and Moz stayed together, splashing each painting in a yellow glow. They did not spend more than five seconds at each. Just long enough to confirm whether or not the old man would be interested in the piece. Some of them Neal almost considered. The theme seemed like something that his father would adore, but the value of it was very little. Knowing his father, he wanted something of great monetary value just as much as he wanted a canvas he could admire.

Fifteen minutes had already passed before the two partners in crime made there way up the stairs. It was hard stopping and starting again on every other step. Moz tripped once knocking one painting they already looked at to the floor. A crashing of broken glass rang out trough the house. Neal flinched, waiting as the silence drug on. He was just starting to breathe again when an angry voice called down the stairs.

"What's going on down here!"

* * *

_Breathe in, breathe out. _Constance tried her best to follow her mantra. If Neal had not listened to her, then he would be coming soon. She hoped that he had, though. There was something worse behind her father's plans other than playing a traditional game with his two children. Nevertheless, Constance knew her brother. He was apt to be rebellious. Especially when he was receiving his 'orders' from his younger sister.

The young girl tried to roll over, any position other than the one she was in would probably be more comfortable. But she couldn't move at all. The chest was old, which was good and bad in a way. The older the chest, the wider the gap between the slats. That meant a whole lot more air coming in. The bad news was that if Neal by chance decided to listen to her, it meant that her death was going to be slower as it would take longer for the air to diminish.

Constance pushed the thoughts of dying away. She had to convince herself that this was all a dream. You couldn't die in a dream.

_Breathe in, breathe out. Don't fear, don't doubt. _

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The light over the stairs turned on, illuminating the two would-be thieves. Neal Caffrey looked up to see his technical patron staring at him with furious eyes. June was always nice, she hardly ever got mad. But even nice people had there stopping point when they saw a convicted felon holding an expensive painting, wearing gloves as if they intended to steal it.

His heart beating rapidly inside his chest, Neal knew that he could make up some kind of story. He was a master at lying. In seconds he could ravel a story the likes of which would convince a rock that he was water. Something took over the man; he did not want to lie to June. Though he wanted to keep her out of it, for her own safety. He had a feeling that it would be in his best interest to tell her the truth. So, with as few words as possible he explained everything that was going on.

When he was finished, Neal took a deep breath and looked to June. They were all three sitting at the top of the stairs. The consultant felt like he was wasting time sitting there, but his instincts told him he was doing the right thing. For a long moment, June was silent. At first, Neal thought that she was angry at him, but soon he realized that she was thinking. Slowly, she stood up, watching as the men followed suit. She flicked her finger at the two and started walking towards her room.

"Follow me,"

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The mantra was not helping. Every attempt at trying to keep herself calm was starting to fail. The silence inside what the girl considered her coffin, was deafening. She wanted to talk, but she knew that would only waste of her air. Constance wanted to cry, scream or do something to appropriately channel her fear, but she couldn't.

Screaming was out of the question. She would eat up her air in seconds. She was so dehydrated that crying had become impossible. As much as she wanted to, she could not get herself to cry a single tear. The only other sound was her breathing and even that scared her. It told her that she was running out of air. Every little breath took one more intake of the coveted oxygen. Soon there would be none left.

* * *

June led her 'intruders' into her room. Neal did not understand what was happening at first until he looked up onto the wall above the fireplace. There, perched upon the wall like an animal, was a painting. A very well known painting that had gone missing many years before from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. Neal felt himself compelled by the painting. Remembering how he had thought that he should have stolen it first.

"The Storm on the Sea of Galilee," breathed Neal.

"Rembrandt," agreed Mozzie who was standing in the doorway in awe.

June nodded, reaching forward to grab it from the mantle. Neal darted forward to help her and she thanked him accordingly. Together they examined it as June went to explain how it had come into her position. "Byron won it from a man in a game. Brought it to me for our anniversary," she explained.

Neal flashed his signature smile at her. "It's beautiful,"

With gentle fingers he traced the paintbrush strokes that created the ship. The water sloshing over the sides. This was definitely the type of painting that his father would want. Though he definitely did not want to think on how he had gotten into the woman's room. Neal looked up, meeting June's eyes with his sad blue ones.

"June, I…,"

The woman placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, "Take it,"

* * *

Time was starting to blend for the young girl. Her head was starting to become hazy. Her thoughts were further and further apart. Little pieces of thoughts reached her. She thought that she saw Peter and Neal, but then the visions faded and she was left alone again.

There was a voice talking to her. _It's almost over, Cassie. Just hold on. _The voice sounded familiar, not her own, but someone else's. Someone that she knew. Her mind was too clouded; she could not place the sound. Each breath was starting to hurt now. The air was starting to thin. One word entered her brain, drowning out all her senses.

_Dying_.

* * *

At the church, Neal felt exposed as he laid the painting against the bell. He turned around, spinning every which way. He wanted to make sure that no one could sneak up on him. A vibration radiated through his pocket and he jumped. Shamefully, he grabbed the phone and placed it to his ear. The excited sound of his father's voice only made him feel worse. His stomach flipped in anticipation.

"You've been wasting time, Neal,"

"Stop, wasting more of it. I brought the painting. Now tell me where she is!" he hissed back.

A cold breeze spread through the graveyard making the man shiver. "She's not very far. You'll find her at a place where amateur sculptors should go for equipment. The apartment number is the fifteenth prime number,"

"Alright," Neal replied, his brain on overload to try to figure out the clue. The fifteenth prime number was forty-seven, he knew that instantly. That did not help him much if he did not know where to search. Sculptors, what did they need.

"Clay…," he muttered, "Bars of clay. Barclay Apartments!"

"Very good, Neal," the voice replied, "You better get going, time's almost up,"

Without letting another minute go to waste, he took off at a run towards the apartments.

* * *

Constance felt herself fading. Her breaths were nothing more than harsh gasps. The air was almost gone. A few more breaths and there would be nothing. Bright spots of white flashed across her vision. Pieces of the past, good and bad, roared through her mind. This was her last moment. She had to find something to say. Even if no one could hear her. She wanted her coffin to ring with her voice, the last words of a dying angel. Something from a story she had read, though she was sure that she was nowhere near to being an angel.

Suddenly, she choked. Her heartbeat rose and her breathing became labored. A panic attack had taken over her. Everything was starting to go black. She breathed in one last time, feeling hardly any air enter her lungs. Suddenly, she knew what she wanted to say. What she wanted the entire world to hear when she was finally found.

"Good-bye, Neal,"

* * *

The door was easy to pick, probably the easiest that Neal had ever come in contact with. Pushing in the door, he made sure that the area was clear. Faintly, he could hear the beeping of his anklet outside. It was probably in his imagination because there was no way the sound could have reached that far. Nevertheless, it comforted him. If anything bad happened, Peter could find him now.

In the far corner of the room, he saw it. The looming shape that his sister feared. Neal rushed forward, pulling out his tools to pick the lock. This one was a whole lot more difficult, but in only a few seconds, the pin snapped open, falling to the floor with a thud. Horror flooded through him as he threw open the lid. His sister looked peaceful though her face was sickly pale.

Fear erupted in his heart as he hauled her out of the cramped space, spreading her limbs around her. He could feel the tears rising in his eyes, but he pushed them back. Neal held a hand over her nose, no air was escaping. Clasping his fingers together, he pressed down on the girl's stomach, counting off to thirty. Then he clenched two fingers over her nose and breathed into her mouth.

"Come on, Cas, please!" he pleaded, pressing his hands down one more time.

Right then there was a sputtering sound from the girl. Neal looked to see her gasping for air, her blue eyes blinking open.

"Neal?" she groaned.

The man smiled, smoothing out her hair with his left hand. "I'm here,"

Suddenly, the girl's eyes went wide with fear. She gasped, trying to speak, but before she could a shock of pain flooded through Neal. He felt his muscles spasm and then everything went black.


	18. Closer to the Edge

**Author's Note: Oh no! I just realized that we are almost to the end of this fan fiction. Not fair…I don't want to stop writing it. Oh, well. There are still a few more chapters to get through. I thank all of those who have enjoyed this story and/or reviewed.**

**I am taking requests now for stories to write after this. For White Collar of course. Just come to me with an idea if you would like me to write it. I can put Constance in there if you would like, or keep her out of the mix. Also, I will not write slash. It's not that I have anything against it really, it's just I'm not good at describing that kind of relationship. I don't want to ruin the story with bad detail.**

**Hope you enjoy the rest of the story to come and bring me some good ideas.**

**Thanks.**

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**Closer to the Edge**

Mozzie sat at the dining room table with June. He was shaking with anxiety, his lips gently brushing a wine glass as he sipped from it. He was on his fifth glass. June stared at him calmly, a sight that made him even more uncomfortable. The woman was much too calm at times. It kind of scared him, not that he would admit it, of course. She had not said much since Neal left.

The mysterious man laid his glass down on the table, checking the clock across the room for the eighteenth time in two minutes. An hour and a half had already passed by since he had watched his friend walk out of the room. He was sure that something bad had happened to keep the man so long. They needed to get help. As if she was reading his mind, June laid a hand on his and spoke.

"Call him," she urged.

The man slowly nodded as the woman passed him the phone. He dialed a number he rarely called and yet knew by heart. Suddenly, he decided against it and hung up. One look from June convinced him to redial.

The dial-tone started giving Moz the idea that he should rip his ears out. The sound went on forever and for a second, fear gripped him. What if their 'backup' was too deep into his sleep to answer the phone, then where would they be? A couple seconds later, however, the dial-tone ended and a very tired voice answered with a muffled 'hello'. Moz was overtaken by a strange fear of what the man would say.

"Suit! Neal's in trouble," He blurted out. He was glad that the many cups of wine were starting to loosen his tongue a little. He would not have been able to get out a word if it hadn't.

* * *

Peter had been wrapped into the tight embrace of both his wife and a wonderful dream. A ringing telephone interrupted the beautiful scene of a bright blue-green beach. The sound was startling, loud enough to wake the dead. The man swiped his hand across his nightstand a few times. When his fingers finally came in contact with the object, he grabbed for it. Like a bar of wet soap, it shot of his hand.

Sighing, he finally opened his eyes all the way. He stepped out of bed, blinking his eyes in an attempt to clear away the sleep. Irritated, he snatched up his phone and placed it to his ear. He thought he said hello, but he wasn't sure.

"Suit! Neal's in trouble!"

Peter groaned at the worried sound of Moz's voice. The man never called him, which meant there was trouble. Rubbing his temple as he stepped out of his room, the man prepared himself for what the other had to say.

Quickly, Mozzie relayed everything that had happened, or at least what he knew so far. By the time, he was finished, El had woken up and the couple was sitting at the dining room table sipping at hot coffee. _God, I love my wife, _Peter thought.

"Neal told me to call you if I thought something had happened. It's nearly been two hours,"

Sighing, the agent rubbed his eyes a little more. Maybe this was a nightmare. Maybe he was still wrapped tightly in his bed, held every so closely by his wife. But, he knew that it wasn't. He knew that Neal had gone and gotten himself in trouble again. Now, it was his turn to find the kid and teach him the value of listening.

El met eyes with her husband, the curiosity written across her face. He said nothing at first, unsure how to word his sentence to put Mozzie at ease. The he realized that there was no way that he was going to be able to do that. Moz was Neal's best friend. He would always worry about him, as long as he was missing.

"Alright, we'll find him, Mozzie," was the only reply the agent could give before hearing the phone hang up.

Once again, his wife's gaze met his own. For a long moment, there was silence. However, from that look, Elizabeth gathered all the information she needed. "Neal?" she asked.

Holding his phone out in front of him, the man nodded. "Yeah. He's going to get himself killed," he replied.

Peter looked back down at his hands, as if expecting another call. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the phone started to ring again. Answering it, the agent was met with Jones' also tired voice. Before the man was able to get out anything out, Peter interrupted him.

"Let me guess, Neal's anklet?" he asked.

Jones was nearly incredulous at the man's dead on guess. "Yeah, he cut it. How did you know?"

"A very trustworthy informant just tipped me off," he replied, feeling strange that he was calling Moz, trustworthy. Only when it came to Neal could he say that. The well-being of the ex-con artist was the only thing that the two of them agreed on.

Heading back up the stairs to get dressed, Peter ordered Jones to get him a trace on where the anklet was at that moment.

"We can start there and figure out where he went,"

Jones ultimately agreed with his superior, though Peter could hear a bit of defiance in his tone. He thought that the man had run again, the agent was sure. But as he hung up, Peter told himself that he knew exactly what had happened.

Neal had not been able to withstand the thought of his sister dying. Truthfully, Peter could not blame him a bit. Not that it helped the predicament they were all in. More than likely, Neal had gotten into big trouble that he was going to need help getting out of. That meant that he was going to have to stick his neck out again to save the kid's butt.

"Damnit, Neal," he hissed to himself as he pulled on his clothes. He wished that he could just put a tracking chip in the consultant. They could wire it to work like a shock collar. A cruel thought, but Peter had the idea that it would probably work to his advantage.

Pushing the thoughts, away he rushed down the stairs. His wife met him at the door, the worry written on her face.

"Be careful," she said, quietly. There was something about what her husband had told her about Jonathan Caffrey that made the woman a little frightened to let Peter out of her sight. The man sounded like a complete psycho.

Peter tried to smile, but could not manage one. "Always am, honey," he replied.


	19. Your Guardian

**Author's Note: New Chapter that will decide all. *wink, wink***

**This chapter's lyrics are brought to you by: Red Jumpsuit Apparatus**

**Enjoy.**

**

* * *

**

**Your Guardian **

The first thing that Neal was aware of was the pain coursing through his entire body. At first, it was so bad that he did not even want to open his eyes. A weak whimper brought him to his senses. It reminded him what he was doing, or what he had been doing. Flashes of his sister's unconscious body appeared before his eyes before fading into the darkness.

Forcing back the headache, he forced his eyes open, trying to fight back the need to sleep some more. A burning sensation radiated down his neck giving him the suspicion that he had fallen victim to a taser.

He turned his head to the side, looking in the direction of the whimper. Cassandra Caffrey was uncomfortably positioned by the table, her hands cuffed to the bar above her head. She kept moving around, trying her best to find a more comfortable position. As if feeling his gaze on her, the girl froze. Turning her head, their eyes met. They stared at each other for a long time in silence. Each of them trying to take in everything that had changed about the other.

Neal's heart wrenched when he saw how sickly she looked. He needed to get her out of here as soon as possible. This thought brought him back to what he was actually supposed to be doing. He tried to stand up, to go to his sister's aide and get her as far away from their sadistic father as he could. Only then did her realize the problem. Both his hands were cuffed, behind his back and around the chair. Another source of the pain radiating through his body. The consultant tried to keep from smiling. His father was making this far too easy.

"Long time, no see, huh?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood a little while he unlocked the handcuffs.

* * *

_When I see your smile  
Tears run down my face_

_

* * *

_

The nineteen year old eyed him almost angrily. She opened her mouth, swallowing a little before she finally spoke in a rough voice, "I warned you,"

Neal paused in his work and looked back up at her. Her eyes looked like they were ready to tear up, but there were no tears escaping. He hated seeing her like this after all the time they had been separated. He wished he could tell her that he was already free, that everything was going to be okay. Unfortunately, while he was finding the right words to say, their father decided to step through the front door.

Constance shrunk back against the wall when the man neared her. Neal felt painfully responsible for the fear that flashed across her face. Jonathan Caffrey cast a glance, seeing that his son was now entirely awake, glaring at him with his matching blue eyes.

"Isn't this wonderful?" he exclaimed, "We're all together again,"

Neal swallowed back the sarcastic comments forcing their way up his throat. His father was holding a gun carelessly in his hand and was sitting far too close to his sister for him to risk it. The man stood up, eyeing Neal with curious eyes. He gently stroked the few hairs he had upon his chin as he thought.

"You know, the irony of this situation astounds me,"

Neal could not hold his comments back forever, "Why's that?"

Jonathan looked at the man, his face blank. Suddenly, he started laughing. His voice was deep and the sound reminded Neal of a pig's squeal.

"Still the same old con artist that you were then," the man stated, "You ruined everything. I could have gotten away clean with all of them dead. But, you just had to show up and be the hero,"

The consultant's eyes opened wide as he realized what his father was talking about. All of the pieces finally started coming together. None of this had anything to do with their father needing extra cash and everything to do with finishing what he had started.

Neal flicked his gaze to his sister, knowing that she had known what was happening the entire time. There was resignation in her eyes, empty of all feeling. It hurt him just to see it. She looked up, her face softening when she met his eyes. She had understood the message hidden in her brother's eyes. _Don't you dare give up now. _

* * *

_How this world turns cold__  
And breaks through my soul_

_

* * *

_

Their father caught sight of this exchange. In his head, he was jumping for joy that his children had retained their close relationship. It made the game all the more fun. The man turned around, bending over as he uncuffed the girl. Neal followed with his eyes as his father guided the girl to kneel a few feet away. The ex-con artist was sitting on the edge of the seat, just waiting for his moment to catch his father off guard. But, the gun never wavered.

On her knees, Constance felt as if everything was coming to an end. She started praying. A lot of inmates in the jail had believed in God while other had not. She herself was not completely sure at the moment, but she was going to have to convince herself that there was some divine intervention waiting for them.

The familiar feeling of the icy cold metal spread down her spine as her father pressed the gun behind her head. She would have fought back had she even a dime of strength. She felt a small tear run down her face as he yelled.

"Let's finish this game with a finale to remember," he began, his eyes meeting those of son, "Tell me Neal, how many bullets should I put in her this time?"

* * *

They had a 1000- foot radius that the anklet could be in. Peter was not very optimistic about finding it. He hoped that Neal had left it out where it would be easy to be found. The three agents quickly split up to search the two alleys in their radius.

The agent pulled his coat a little closer. The late night air was freezing. He tried to ignore it, focusing more on finding his missing partner than the fact that he was at risk of catching hypothermia or at least a cold. From further down the alley, he could hear an incessant beeping noise. A very familiar sound unfortunately, but a welcome one nonetheless. Rushing forward, the man followed the sound until it was so loud he could not stand it. The beep reverberated off the alley walls making the sound almost unbearably loud.

Looking down, he found himself face to face with a pile of newspapers arranged in a suspiciously neat pile. Pushing a few of them out of the way, he revealed the large gray object that was the cause of his annoyance. The anklet was chirping away like an angry bird. The agent cursed. Neal had run after his sister. For all they knew, the consultant was halfway across the country on some foolish errand that Jonathan Caffrey had cooked up for him. Peter could not believe that he had let him get away with it. He knew what was going to happen. He should have placed someone watching the man.

Picking up the anklet, he held it in one hand while pulling his radio to his lips with the other. That was when he saw it. A small, neatly folded paper lodged in a crevice on the anklet. Interested, the man grabbed the paper and unfolded it. At first he was unsure if Neal was just screwing with him until he actually read the entire message. _Peter, I'm here. Room 47. _

Peter looked up, sizing the building in one look. He radioed in to his other two agents that he was going in. He knew that he should wait, but they were hallways around the building. Too much time had been wasted already. He had a feeling that something was happening. Stepping through the side door he came in contact with a set of stairs. The agent stared at these with contempt before starting up them.

"Hold on, Neal, I'm coming," he told himself.

* * *

Neal stared, frozen in horror, at the gun positioned behind his sister. In his head, he was trying to factor in all the angles. He needed to know if there was any way to get to his sister before his father pulled the trigger. As far as he could tell, there was no way. As soon as he jumped out of his chair, his father would shoot. There were many faults in the man, but his shooting ability was not one of them.

Constance herself looked like she was going to be sick. Her eyes practically pleaded with him to help her or to let her die quickly. John leaned up against her shoulder, pretending that he was whispering into her ear. However, his voice remained just as loud

"Looks like Neal forfeits his turn."

Constance cringed, trying to pull away from the man's unpleasant proximity. In response, he tugged roughly on her hair. She gasped on her breath and fell silent.

"Fine. It's your turn, Cassie. How many bullets for your brother?" he asked.

The youngest sibling's eyes opened wide. She had not expected this at all. Her mouth was too dry to answer as she stared at her brother in horrified silence. She was not sure what she would even say. As much anger as she had at her brother for all he had done, she did not want him killed either. John's face lost its excitement and confusion deepened his wrinkles.

"Well, this is interesting. No bullets for you brother. I would have expected more, considering everything…," he explained.

Neal hissed when his father started to smile again. He had started brushing Constance's long hair, absently with his fingers. The teen whimpered as he pulled the strands, but he ignored her.

"One bullet, for nearly letting you die. Two for breaking your promise. Three for getting arrested. Four for joining the FBI," the man leaned over his daughter's shoulder, grinning, "I could go on,"

There was silence as the two siblings stared at each other. The look in Constance's eyes told Neal that his sister had indeed been upset with him over each topic in the past. However, he could see now that she felt ashamed for being angry with him. She tried to look away from his penetrating gaze, but was rewarded with a smack to the face. She chose instead to fix her gaze on his tie. Another moment of silence passes. Neal took a deep breath causing his sister to look up.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly.

This statement was directed at Constance, but their father took it differently. He bared his teeth, growling with pleasure.

"You should be,"

The man prepared the gun again. He had decided that if neither of his children would make a choice then he would. Placing the gun behind his daughter's back, he positioned it so that it was right in the middle of her spine.

"I like the idea of three bullets, don't you Neal. Holy number and all," he laughed as his finger twitched on the trigger.

* * *

_I will never let you fall  
I'll stand up with you forever  
I'll be there for you through it all  
Even if saving you sends me to Heaven_

_

* * *

_

Two things happened at that exact moment. First, Peter kicked in the door yelling his signature 'FBI' call. Second, Neal took the distraction as his chance and jumped forward, throwing Jonathan to the floor. They wrestled for the gun, Constance knowing well enough to crawl out of the muck. Peter stood at the door, trying to follow what was happening. He needed to calm things down and get the gun out of the picture. However with Neal in the way, there was nothing he could do.

The fight ended with an elbow into Neal's jaw. Lights flashed across his eyes and he fell to the floor, dazed. The crazed father of the two Caffrey's got to his feet, gun in hand, now pointed at Peter. The agent stiffened, completely on alert now.

"Mr. Caffrey, put the gun down,"

The man grinned insanely, "Why should I?"

Peter gritted his teeth. "Last warning, put it down, now!"

Jonathan Caffrey's smile widened. "No,"

Agent Burke prepared himself for what happened next. The gun turned suddenly, the man aiming in another direction. Two shots rang out. On the floor, Neal was starting to come around. He watched as his father fell, flinching as he heard the thud beside him. Peter ran to his partner, glad to see that he was already coming to.

Neal gave his mind time to focus. Two bullets...He checked his father as Peter started to cuff him. One shot to the leg. Fear flooded into the consultant's veins, his head turning to search for his sister. He found her, collapsed against east wall, her eyes shut and her breathing shallow. Flashes of memories of a younger version of his sister, bleeding to death in his arms washed over him.

"No," he gasped.

* * *

_Seasons are changing and waves are crashing  
And stars are falling all for us  
Days grow longer and nights grow shorter_

_

* * *

_

Darting towards her, Neal felt the entire world come crashing down on his shoulders. All this work had been for nothing, he was back exactly where he started. Everything he had ever known shattered right there in front of him.

"Peter, help me!" he screamed trying to find where the bullet had hit.


	20. I Know the Feeling

**I Know the Feeling**

Too clean. That was the only thought that Neal had as he sat up in the hard-backed chair. It would have been the best place to make a forgery though. The thought brought a smile to the man's weary face. He had just woken up, startled by the fact that he had even let himself close his eyes.

Turning his head, Neal looked down to see his little sister sleeping peacefully in the hospital bed. She was starting to get a little color in her cheeks since the doctor had started her on an IV full of electrolytes. Even better was the fact that she would be able to eat solid foods tomorrow if her stomach took to the jell-o like foods they had given her.

Neal could barely believe that anything had changed. There were a few bruises down the girl's arms and probably a few on her back. Her eyes were dark from lack of sleep, but all of it was normal. Constance had never slept well and there had always been more than a couple bruises left behind after one of their father's rants. Despite that, he had to keep reminding himself that it was all over now. Jonathan Caffrey was never going to both either of them again.

Leaning forward, Neal brushed a large clump of stray hair out of the teen's face. She was so still now; it was hard to think that earlier she had thrashed about violently when she had succumbed to a nightmare brought on by a fever.

The consultant felt a smile creep onto his face as he remembered. The first real smile in days. "Little trickster," he teased the sleeping girl.

* * *

"_Peter, help me!"_

_The agent stared from Neal to his whining captive who was already moaning about his leg, but Peter ignored him. The shot had not hit near an artery, there was nothing much to worry about now. Neal, however, was freaking out about Constance and all Peter wanted to do was tell him to shut up. He understood what was happening, but there was nothing he could do. He felt as if the world had stopped for a moment and no matter how fast he tried to move, he still felt like he was going at a snail's pace. _

_Diana and Jones burst through the door. Peter looked up, meeting their eyes. They instantly knew what they had to do. Allowing his agents to take over for him with Jonathan, Peter rushed to his partner's side. Time started to move again, only a few seconds having passed._

_Neal spun around, grabbing his friend by his suit jacket. The agent tried not to look into the consultant's eyes. They were tearing up as he yelled, "Call an ambulance. Do something, Peter, please!" _

_Suddenly the man fell silent as he felt a slight squeeze of his hand. He looked down, Peter following suit. The teenager held her brother's hand weakly in her own sweaty one. Her face was flushed, but she was smiling. Her chest rose fitfully as she laughed. _

"_Who died?" she croaked._

_The ex-con artist and his partner stared at her with their mouths agape. The girl's face fell, her brow furrowing in confusion. She looked from each man, her mouth suddenly forming an 'o' when she realized what had happened. Using her free hand, Constance pulled down her sleeve a little. Peter recognized the fabric instantly, turning his head as he fought back a somewhat annoyed smirk. The girl's brother stared at her, the worried look now one of disbelief. _

"_A bulletproof vest, Constance, really?" he asked. _

_She forced a smile on her face, "Did I tell you how much I don't like dying?" _

_Neal chuckled, shaking his head as he squeezed the teen's hand. He felt a little tug as Constance sat up, using the wall as leverage. He followed her, his knees unbending with ease. The girl released his hand, moving towards the bathroom. Neal grabbed for her, unsure of what she was doing. The teen jolted forward, away from his hand. The man looked to his partner who shrugged and signaled that they should follow her. _

_Constance led them into the poorly constructed lavatory, her eyes falling exactly where she wanted them to. The mirror. Inquisitively, the two men watched as the auburn-haired girl leaned forward, using her fingers to pry away the shelving. Once the inside of the mirror was gone, a gaping hole revealed itself. From this hole, Constance pulled out a rectangular wooden box. She handed the box to Peter. The agent looked at the box then back up at the girl with a strange look on his face. _

_Thinking he needed further encouragement, the teen nodded her head. Her smile was almost as wide as Neal's on good days. Her throat hurt too much to waste words when she knew that there were none needed. Neal leaned over his partner's shoulder as the box opened. A smile appeared on both of their faces making the girl even happier. _

"_The originals of the paintings you stole," Peter commented, nodding his head in joy. _

"_Did I do good?" _

_Her voice was softer now, its touch of excitement no longer there. It sounded so child-like that both Peter and Neal looked up to make sure they were still talking to the same person. Constance's smile had disappeared, now replaced with a look of utmost seriousness. Her sad eyes pleading for that small sentence. For someone to tell her that she had done something right. That everything had turned out perfect. Neal smiled at his sister and pulled her into a tight hug._

"_You did great, Constance, well done," he praised. _

_The girl whispered something, but it was so faint that no one caught it. Neal felt his sister's body go limp, unconsciousness setting in again. Forcing his hand between his stomach and her head, he nearly yanked his hand back. The consultant looked up at his partner, worry lighting in his eyes again._

"_She's burning up," he commented._

_Not that the agent did not trust his partner, but he confirmed for himself that the girl's body temperature was indeed pretty high. Taking in the pale look on her exhausted face, the unconsciousness and the fever, Peter was sure that he knew what was wrong. He patted his friend's shoulder to comfort him, a hope of passing the message that the girl was going to be okay without having to say it. _

"_Let's get her to a hospital," _

_

* * *

_

A door opened into the room disturbing Neal from his memories. He knew exactly who was there, even before the man even spoke.

"You do know that those are supposed to be around her wrist right?"

Peter Burke walked around the bed until he could see Neal's face. The consultant flicked his gaze over to the table which a pair of unlocked handcuffs now occupied. He let a false look of innocence cross his face as he looked up to his partner.

"I have no idea how those got off," he retorted, gesturing absently in the direction of the handcuffs.

Peter snorted, but let the subject drop. Handcuffs had always been a traditional precaution with fugitives in the hospital. But, he knew that Constance was not going anywhere. Even if she had had the strength to run, she wouldn't. There was nowhere for her to go as long as Neal worked for the FBI.

The silence stretched on for a long time. The only sound was the beeping of the monitor. Peter twiddled his fingers uncomfortably having found another chair to sit in. He knew that he needed to tell Neal what came next for his sister. He slightly expected the man already knew. Neal just closed his eyes, willing sleep to return now that he was sure that Constance was safe. Finally, his eyes flicked open. He looked up to his partner, afraid to ask the question that was bothering him the most.

"What did they say?"

Peter looked down, his shoes suddenly becoming more interesting. That simple little gesture told Neal everything he needed to know. He let out a tired sigh, rubbing his face with his hands. There had been little chance that Constance would get out of this without any repercussions for her actions. He had had a little hope though since she had been held at gunpoint most of the time, but apparently the judicial system did not approve of that as a viable excuse.

When he spoke, his voice was muffled by his hands, but Peter still understood him. "How long?"

The agent looked back up, straightening in his seat. His face was solemn now, knowing how hard this was for everyone, including himself. "Another year," he replied.

The consultant shook his head side to side. This wasn't fair, not to him and definitely not to his sister. None of this had been her fault. Their father had always been a sadistic lunatic. He had forced her to break out and forge the paintings. What right did they have to send her back longer than she needed to be? Pulling his hands away, he looked over to his partner with insistent eyes.

"Why?"

Peter twiddled his thumbs fiercely now, trying to keep from meeting his friend's gaze. His fingers stopped moving, the agent taking a deep breath. Eventually, he exhaled and looked up.

"They said that he wasn't there when she stole the paintings. She could have easily told the intern that she was being held hostage thus they say the art theft was done willingly,"

Neal propped his elbows on his knees and let his head collapse into his hands. He could not believe this. After all he had been through to get her back just to lock her back up in a cell. The thought hurt him to even think about. Peter sat quietly in his chair. He wanted to comfort Neal, but he didn't really know how. He just guessed it was better for him to keep his mouth shut than to speak and possibly make the situation worse.

"I always hated hospitals, everyone looks so sad,"

Both men looked up at the sound of Constance's soft voice. She was beaming up at her brother, but her eyes were strangely empty of the joy that was on her face. He knew that she had heard them. She probably had been awake since Peter had walked in. The girl frowned when she realized that her brother knew she knew.

"I made it for two," she said, "What's one more year?"

Neal shook his head knowing his sister was just trying to con him into thinking she was completely alright with the idea. Nevertheless, he knew her. He knew how scared of being locked up, she was. A deep fear of being in a cage; a hazard that came with being a Caffrey. It just seemed to be a value that was taught in their family. Forcing a smile, the consultant squeezed the teen's hand.

"Three hundred and sixty-five days of pure hell, Constance," he replied.

"Cassie,"

To this the man looked at the girl in confusion. Peter, still lost in his own thoughts, was also a little curious at the strange answer. "What's that?" Neal inquired.

The girl took a deep breath, licking her lips nervously. "I want to be Cassie again," she stated, simply.

Neal smiled, finally understanding. By getting rid of the name 'Constance', his sister was free. She was telling him that she was going to be her own person, not the warped young adult that her father had created. Not the woman who had only herself and no one else in the world. The consultant watched Cassie turn over on her side, sleep taking over her body once more. Peter stood up, signaling Neal with his hand. He stretched then headed towards the door. Neal stood up to follow, leaning over to whisper in the young girl's ear.

"You were never anyone else," he told her.

Cassie's lips upturned into a tired smile as she tried to push back a yawn. "I know,"

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**No. This is not the end of the story. You've still got one more chapter. Muhahahaha! Ahem. Moving on…**

**Before anyone asks me about it, if you want to know how Cassie got the bulletproof vest, go back to 'World So Cold'. Read the chapter really carefully and pay attention to where the vest goes. It will make sense then. If you already noticed that detail, then Huzzah, less work for you.**

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter and I really hope you like the next and last chapter.**

**Thanks.**


	21. The Coldest Heart

**The Coldest Heart**

He felt like he had lost something, a part of him was missing. The feeling reminded Neal Caffrey of the way he had been after Kate's death. It hadn't been that long, but the pain had subsided. Now, it seemed to rise within him like a virus. Cassie was back in confinement for another year. He could visit her for an hour once a month. That wasn't enough for him. He felt like he needed to make up for all the time he had been gone. The teen needed him and he had never been there for her.

The sun had risen, but still the consultant did not get out of bed. Peter would probably be wondering where he was by now. His phone rang, a loud noise that echoed in his strangely empty room. He had never thought about how lifeless his room was. The lack of human life other than himself was now a dreadful omen to him. Maybe he was destined to be alone. Forever.

Neal drifted in and out of sleep. His phone rang more than a few times, but soon it just blended into the deafening silence surrounding him. A part of his daily routine that would never be complete. Finally, the incessant sound stopped completely. Vaguely, the consultant thought how strange it was. Peter was never one to give up. But then the thought drifted away from him, lost in the empty spaces of his mind. He didn't care. Nothing mattered. Not the trouble he had gone through to get his sister back. Not the fact that he had lost June's painting to the museum. Not the fact that Peter was knocking on his door.

It did not even occur to Neal what was happening until there was an FBI agent standing beside his bed. His blue eyes looked up into Peter's eyes. He was so dazed that at first he thought that he was hallucinating or dreaming. Angrily, he slung a pillow at what he believed to be an apparition brought on by his imagination.

"Go away," he growled, stuffing his head into the remaining pillow.

"No," was Peter's gruff reply.

When Neal did not answer, the agent bent down and gripped his hands under the mattress. The next thing Neal knew was that he was face down on the floor, a piercing headache attacking his brain and his mattress was in a destructive heap beside him. Rolling over, the half-naked consultant stared up at his partner with blood shot eyes.

"What the hell, Peter?"

A pile of clothes hit him square in the face. Sitting up, Neal fixed his gaze on the huffy agent.

"Get dressed, you can't mope around here forever, we've got work to do," Peter told him.

Neal heaved a loud sigh and stood up. He waited a full minute before watching Peter exit the room, allowing him to pull on his suit. Once he was done, he stared down at the mess they had created. He shook his head, stepping out into the hallway. Peter was waiting for him with a smug look on his face.

"About time, sleeping beauty," he said with a chuckle.

The consultant raised an eyebrow, somewhat intrigued by his partner's upbeat attitude. Even on a good day, this was strange for Peter. As they head outside, Neal asked, "What's got you on a sugar high?"

Peter Burke smiled handing a folder full of papers to his friend. They were at the car now and Neal looked at his partner with a look of skepticism on his face. Peter shrugged, opening the car door.

"Let's just say, you owe me one,"

* * *

Cassandra Caffrey was rather happy to see her brother. For a teen who had just received an extra year to her sentence, she seemed to be handling herself nicely. Neal smiled at her when she was brought into the meeting room. He wanted to hug her, but unfortunately he wasn't allowed. At first, the girl just kept smiling at him. It made him feel a little uncomfortable. As if she knew something he didn't. Except, he knew that it was the other way around.

Her hair was neatly brushed again. A better look than the one she had had while lying in the hospital bed two week before. Most of the bruises had faded, the only remaining mark of her kidnapping being the scars that marred her hands. Finally, Neal broke the silence.

"You look," he stumbled, "Happy,"

The teen's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Neal tried to retrieve his thoughts, remember what he was supposed to say to her. Peter and he had rehearsed this. They could not let anything slip. It would ruin everything they had set into motion.

"Well, you know, you just…ummm, you know…."

The man rambled on, his sister staring at him in confusion. She smiled at him and shook her head.

"Just got out of the hospital and thrown back into jail?" she finished for him.

Neal grimaced, "Yeah, that."

Cassie dropped her gaze to her hands, feeling a little uncomfortable herself. Since she had gotten back, she had been forced to create a facade. There were inmates inside this place that would eat her alive, if they guessed that she was a coward. Tough criminals ran this place, even though it was a minimum security. That just said they weren't a danger to getting out. Inside the jail, however, they were a definite threat. There was only so much protection that being Neal Caffrey's sister could bring her.

There had only been one woman that helped her. The woman had held her brother in total awe, so much that she had protected Cas. No one could touch Cassie as long as this woman was around. There was only one little problem now that Cassie was back. Her protector had been released. Now it was up to the teen to convince the other inmates that she could protect herself. She looked up, a look of courage in her eyes. A look that made Neal see the adult his sister really was and not the child-like pretense she had created years ago.

"Let's just say I've got a broader outlook for my future," she replied, cryptically.

Neal had no idea what she meant and she was glad. The last thing she needed was her brother interfering. If she got her butt kicked in jail, then that was her problem. Not his. There was a cough behind them. Cassie turned to see the guard pointing at his wrist. He wasn't wearing a watch, but it was obvious what he meant. Visitation was over. Cassie's face fell and she stood up, slowly.

"It was good to see you, Neal. Don't forget to come back next month," she said.

This was it; this was where he had to say his line. If he missed this, then all was lost. Neal stood up too, watching his sister calmly. "There won't be a next month,"

Confusion settled into the girl's face. Neal thought he even saw a flash of fear appear in her eyes. There were thousand of things that his line could mean. Not a single one of them would she get to find out as the guard led her away, away from her brother once again.

* * *

Peter was sitting in the driver's seat of his car, waiting. As soon as he saw Neal walking out of the detention center, he stepped out. He waited until the consultant was only a few feet from him before speaking. "Did you say it?" he asked.

Neal nodded, "Exactly like you told me to,"

A smile broke out on both their faces as Neal settled onto Peter's hood. He could not hold back his giddiness. He chuckled, shaking his head at what they were all about to do. He turned to look at Peter only to find the agent glaring at him. "What?"

"Get off the car,"

The young man rolled his eyes, but slid off the car hood anyway. Peter was stock still as he leaned against the car. As serious as he was trying to look he could not help, but smile. He looked over at Neal who was fiddling with a large gray object in his hands. Playfully, he popped the younger man's hands.

"Stop playing with that," he hissed.

Neal stopped, his only thought that Peter was ruining all the fun in this. The silence stretched on for a little longer. Boredom started to sink and he started fiddling with the object again. Peter cleared his throat and the consultant sighed. He let his hands fall to his sides, turning his head to look at Peter.

"How long before she gets the news?"

The agent lifted his arm, pulling his sleeve down to look at his watch. He looked up, his eyes dancing as he smiled. "Right about now,"

* * *

The bed was not at all comfortable. Not that Cassie could really care about how the bed felt. Her brother's words in the meeting room were still ringing in her ears. What did he mean? Neal was always cryptic; it was just the way they worked. But this, this was worse. The message almost seemed like a good-bye, like she would never see him again.

The youth stared at the only sketch in the room with a faraway look in her eyes. Her brother had abandoned her a few times already. It almost seemed like she should be used to it by now. Inside, she knew that it still hurt. There had never been anyone else that she needed more. Neal had taught her how to paint. He had created a splint for her when her wrist had broken and she refused to go to the hospital. He had been the only one who cared enough to throw his life away, just to save her. Neal meant everything to her. But apparently, it seemed she meant nothing to him after all.

Rest time was the worse, Cassie thought. When she was locked inside her cell, once during the afternoon and once again at night. The other activities through the day were actually interesting, even the working part. However, being in the cell reminded her that she was a prisoner. That this was her cage. She was a bird with clipped wings, unable to fly for another year.

None of the inmates were allowed to talk during rest time. Usually anyone who did was pretty quiet about it. Thus when loud voices starting muttering down the hallway, interest sparked inside the girl's brain. Sitting up, Cassie waited, trying to make out what the voices were saying.

_What's going on? Is this a drill? _

Two guards stopped outside of the cell followed by a man not dressed in a uniform. Cassie looked at them in bewilderment. Only one of the guards walked down the hallway during rest time. And they definitely did not have the determined look that these guys had. The plain clothes man perplexed her even more. Inmates could only talk to non-guards in the meeting rooms. One of the guards started to unlock the door while the other glared at the girl, making sure she stayed put. The teen did not need an further warning; she wanted nothing to do with this strange man. Not after all that had happened.

Opening the door, the guard let the plain clothes step forward. Surprisingly, the man seemed nice and almost instantly he put Cassie at ease about the events taking place. He looked pretty young, barely a few years older than her, his tanned face clear of any scars or wrinkles. His eyes were a kindly brown and his hair a trimmed black that probably looked better as a mess than brushed neatly. The man flashed a shining grin at the young teen.

"Hello, Cassandra. I'm Ryan Kowalski, your probation officer,"

The nineteen year old stared at the man, unblinking. "It's Cassie," was the only thing she could bring herself to say.

The man nodded, smiling at her still. He bent over and laid a pair of civilian clothes down on the bed. Without another word, he turned to walk out of the cell. Before he closed the door he looked back at her.

"Get dressed, you're going home,"

* * *

Ten minutes later, Cassie exited the detention center, Officer Kowalski dead on her heels. She kept walking, not sure where the man was leading her. That was until she caught sight of the black car parked right in front of the gate. Leaning up against the hood, their smiles too wide to miss were Neal and Peter.

The teen restrained herself, calmly keeping her pace even until she reached them. Kowalski came up behind her, saying nothing as she hugged her brother tightly muttering something about him being a jerk for toying with her. When the moment was over, she looked up to see Peter staring at her with is fatherly gaze. She frowned looking from him to Officer Kowalski at his side.

"Uh-oh. Why do I get the feeling that all this comes with a catch?" she asked.

Peter replied, "Because it does,"

Kowalski was the next to speak. "You are on probation for an entire year starting today. You will stay with your brother during this time,"

Peter took over from there making the girl almost sure that this had been rehearsed before hand.

"You must check in with me every morning and Officer Kowalski every two weeks. You will not be allowed in any museums or any place that displays art without an escort. You must be in June's house between the hours of ten at night to seven in the morning and you cannot leave the two-mile radius you now share with Neal," the agent stopped to take a breath and looked at the two men standing near him. "Am I missing anything?"

Neal piped up about this time, holding up the gray object he had been fiddling with.

"And you get a wonderful piece of jewelry as a prize," he said, trying to keep a smile from appearing on his face.

Cassie couldn't help, but laugh as Kowalski fitted the tracking anklet onto her ankle. A year under the intense supervision. She did not exactly know which was worse. Prison or this new development. But feeling her brother's protective arm around her, she suddenly realized that this was worth it. At least now there was no cage. She was free to roam, two-miles at least. And that was so much better than only three feet.

His business at the detention center done for now, Officer Kowalski said good-bye and disappeared into his car. Neal steered his sister, who was still in shock towards the car.

"Come on, Cas, let's go home,"

The girl repeated the word softly, liking how it sounded coming from her mouth.

"Home,"

_The End_

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**Author's Note: That's it you guys. I can't believe it's over. I had such a great time writing this. I'm so glad that people enjoyed it. **

**I already have a few one-shots and some more fanfics planned, but I'm still taking requests. So if you've got an idea for me, don't be afraid to tell me. I've only got so much that I can do with my own imagination. And it's not much when I don't know what everyone else wants. **

**Thanks again for all the reviews. And I hope you enjoyed it. **

**(And yes to those who have already read this chapter, I messed up something and deleted it by accident. Thus being forced to repost. Sorry and thank you for the wonderful reviews you left me.)**


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